He will not sell the house.  She would not have him sell the house but – still, he will not sell it.

‘Four years,’ he’d said.  ‘It will buy us four years at most.  And then what?  Four years is nothing.’

Four years is nothing.  Four years in the face of the last fifteen she has spent with this arsehole, is nothing.

Some kids drive past in a beat up old fiesta.

‘Fat slag!’ they shout, as they swerve towards the curb.

Road water grit crunches on her teeth, and trickles down inside her clothes.  Water finds its own way, she thinks.

This is not how she imagined her first night living with cancer would be.