By Rachel Makinson

I rolled over in bed to face you and I told you that in my dream I’d slept with someone who wasn’t you. 

And you said nothing and you closed your eyes and in the morning you made me coffee and put two pan au chocolat onto plates. You brushed the crumbs from the table and you wiped the table with a wet cloth and you washed my coffee cup in the sink. 

I watched you, though you thought I was reading the paper, and once you were done, you went upstairs to take a shower. I only read my paper then. And I read it until two when it began to rain and you came back into the kitchen to make us sandwiches for lunch. 

I took a gherkin straight from the jar and I crunched into it like I’ve always done but you didn’t look at me or smile or laugh like you did the first time I crunched into a gherkin. 

The fringe of your brown hair was in your eyes and you left it there and there was a smear of butter across the breast of your red dress, across one of the pink buttons, and I told you that the woman I dreamt about last night didn’t have breasts as good as yours. And I laughed. You didn’t. 

You sliced through the sandwich and you slid the plate across the table. And you ate outside in the garden and I watched you through the French window, though you thought I was watching the television, and once you were done you went back upstairs without washing the dishes. I only watched the television then. And I watched the television until four when the sunshine had come out again and you came back into the kitchen with your bags packed.

It was just a dream, I said. 

But you opened the door. 

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Rachel Makinson is a UK-based writer and editor, with a BA in English Literature with Creative Writing from Newcastle University. Her work has been featured by several magazines and journals, including Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal, Marrow Magazine, Tabula Rasa Review, and the London Independent Story Prize.