Jenny

For once, the train home from work that Friday was on time, the traffic was light and I looked forward to soon sitting in our kitchen, enjoying a nice relaxed cup of tea with Jenny, my wife of 19 years. Indeed, as I go through the front door, I hear the kettle already boiling. But Jenny sounds very flustered as she calls to me. “I didn’t expect you so early. There’s a… a visitor in the lounge. Just making him a cup of tea… Er… It’s not what you think.” That stops me in my tracks and I glance sideways through the lounge door where I can see a man’s jean-clad legs sprawled out from the settee, bulging where they join. As I step inside, I see a shirt open almost to the waist with curly black hair covering a bicep filled chest. Then I see his face, covered with black stubble. I was already clenching my fists to eject this unwanted intruder from our lives when I realised he would probably beat me up. Then he smiled, and it was one of those remarkable moments when your grip on reality shifts, just as when you see those pictures of a cube, and then in the blink of an eye, you realise you’re inside the cube looking out.