Sabine.
His ex-wife.
Her name found its way into my kitchen about four times a week.
If I cooked, he would say: “Sabine always warmed the plates first.”
If I bought a pan: “Sabine never used that make.”
And when I told him what it did to me, he shrugged.
And then his birthday came round.
“I think I’ll ask Sabine,” he said one evening.
“Sabine?”
“She’s still family. I want her there.”
I reminded him that he had a wife now.
And he put his arms round me and smiled.
“You’re looking at this the wrong way round.”
She arrived three hours before anybody else.
And she came into my kitchen like a woman who still lived in it.
“Those want the blue vase.”
She opened a cupboard without asking and went straight to the right shelf.
And then she started moving my place cards.
“Des should be at the head,” she said, brightly.
