She rests in Ahmad’s chair. The way it creaks used to drive her crazy.
I understand that it is difficult for you to continue living in the house where your husband had his accident and, once again, I extend my deepest sympathies to you at this difficult time.
If she looked up now she would see through his eyes: television, table set for two, even her own back turned to the stove - but then her eyes would roam to that officious square of new blond floorboard, so instead she looks down at the letter. The unbudging ink of its signature.
As I mentioned in my previous letter of 14 December 2013, it is unlikely that another property will become available to you, as other applicants on the Department’s waiting list have been assessed as having a higher housing need.
Her life is this: two buses a day to visit Ahmad, the man down the road who will grin and shout: Bit hot for a scarf isn’t it, love?
And Ahmad in the nursing home, some parts charred like a scorpion fish, other bits plasticky pink, reflecting the skittish shine of the fluorescent bulbs. Ahmad, trapped in a permanent shroud; eyes silenced, voice stitched shut with skin.
It might be helpful if I explain the Department’s housing needs assessment criteria.
His chair creaks as she leans forward. Drops the letter to the floor. Wishes it too would self- immolate there on the boards.