He died the night I thought I was dying.
“I can’t breathe,” I whispered, when I heard his languid voice on the other end.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Gasping, I described the excruciating pain in my lungs.
“How bad is it, darling?” He asked, affecting anxiousness. I groaned in reply.
I heard a sigh, laboriously drawn and I smiled in spite of the pain.
“Why don’t you call a doctor?” he suggested. “Or should I call one?
“I’ll do it,” I croaked.
A long silence.
I felt tears trickle down my cheeks as I crawled to the bedside table. It was in the bottom drawer. Clutching the remote, I crumpled to the floor. I heard sobs through the crackling of my handsfree.
“Darling?” I whimpered.
A sniff and then, “Yes, I’m here, love.”
“Please, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I pressed the green button, turning on the camouflaged monitor in the large framed picture on the wall. He never liked that picture.
“Oh, I’m so far away when my darling needs me,” he sobbed piteously.
The monitor stopped flickering and I could see him curled up beside the naked brunette asleep beside him. Behind them, I could see the immaculate carvings of the bed in our holiday home.
“It’s been five days,” I said, pressing the harmless looking pink button and hoping he had his briefcase with him, the one I had fixed up with a false bottom.
And the screen went blank.