His hand is trembling. He takes two steps towards the girl, who is resting a worn paperback on her knees. **I can't.** He hurries out to the living room, breath come fast and hard. Slowly, the familiar surroundings calm him. He is almost ready to try again when the woman walks quickly through the room to her bedroom, her lithe body ensconsed in a worn brown towel. Her face is hidden in another towel: she is drying her hair. **Janis. Oh God, this is so unreal.** He is standing, walking, entering the room before he is aware that he has moved. He waits just inside the door, watching her dress. She is humming tunelessly, sadly, and he notices the heavy grey swathes that have formed under her eyes. **I have done this to you. I am so sorry, my love.**
He hears the kids yelling at each other in the kitchen. **Chris!** His wife mutters nigh inaudibly and storms past him, still pulling a faded T-shirt over her head. Her hair brushes against his face. She smells like roses.