He had been lying there staring at the glowing red numbers on the clock-radio for more than an hour, and knew he wasn’t going to get any more sleep. He turned his head and looked at his sleeping wife, her lips parted, eyelashes resting on her cheeks, chest rising and falling under the duvet. She was right: a self-righteous blogger making aggressive and sweeping accusations about something he’d done eighteen years ago wasn’t worth getting upset about. He disentangled himself from the damp bedsheets and got out of bed, naked, and with cold feet. He ignored his dressing-gown and pulled on the previous day’s clothes without showering, then crept out of the bedroom and closed the door as quietly as he could. Not that it was really necessary: his wife could have slept through a nuclear war. Down in the kitchen he brewed some coffee, a whole jug, strong. It wasn’t good for him, but just then he didn’t give a damn about his health. He ended up sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall of the house next door.
