Reenie goes downstairs in the muffled silence of the night. She finds that the glass door into the living room is slightly ajar, and that’s how she knows that Mick has been through. He could never stay in bed; it’s no surprise that now he’s dead he’s a restless spirit.

Reenie crosses through to the kitchen at the back of the house. As she pulls the door to, light from the moon moves over her hand. The gnarls of arthritic knuckles and translucence of aged skin are gone in the pale light. Reenie’s hand looks young again. She stares at it for a moment.

When Reenie was about ten years old she began to get a dream that recurred with thudding regularity. She tries to picture what it was all about now. Her frown lines deepen and fill with night. There was something about a woman screaming, and a door slamming, and her sisters. The dream stopped coming when she met Mick.
Drawing water for the kettle, Reenie is distracted by some movements in the garden. She almost says, ‘Mick?’ But it’s a fox. Its eyes reflect white slices of light when it sees her in the window. Reenie doesn’t move, except to sigh a little. The fox seems to decide that she’s no threat and it moves on, jogging along the edge of the garden fence and disappearing into the gloom of a corner shrub. Reenie snaps the tap shut, and the running water stops. It’s a funny time to have a cup of tea, Mick would’ve said. She puts the kettle on to boil.

The kitchen is cold at this time, and so quiet. Everyone in the street must be asleep. Only Reenie and the fox are awake. She considers putting on the telly, but she doesn’t want to get into that habit. She hears some air displaced somewhere by a car. Maybe a taxi; at this time of night, maybe a taxi.  Reenie checks the calendar on the wall to see what day it is: Saturday. Yes, a taxi carrying a man and a woman home. They’ve been dancing. She’s had a couple of glasses of fizzy and the bubbles have gone to her head. He’s stuck to stout; he’s stuck to what he knows and so he’s not so merry as her. Still, he’s had a few pints of stout, and they have been dancing, and she can tell that he’s full of love for her tonight. The drink’s given him a glow and the sweet nature that at first you don’t notice is beaming out of him. They haven’t been married long. So far it has just been the two of them, but when they get in they will tumble together and sweatily both realise that in this moment of simple contentment they have managed to make sure that they’ll be joined by another person, widening their gang to three.

The kettle whistles. Reenie makes her tea. She puts an extra spoon of sugar in. She has to watch that. The doctor’s warned her about insulin, or something, and her kids agreed with him. Tonight when she hears the tock of the kettle’s thermostat it sounds like Mick clopping his tongue. Reenie stirs the sugar into the tea with defiance. That’s the thing about living on your own, you can do what you like. This is the only time in Reenie’s  life she’s been able to please herself, after all.

Reenie’s sitting at the family sized table in the kitchen. It’s too big for just her. The smell of varnished wood rises from it. It’s seen better days. There are ruts in it and circular burns from the bottom of pans and casserole dishes. Reenie runs a finger along the grain of the wood, letting herself stumble on the marks made by her children in it. Here’re the tracks made by the end of spoons drumming impatiently. Here’s the smoothness rubbed down by Dolly’s arms; it took her so long to grow tall enough to sit to table properly. If it’s Saturday tonight then Dolly will coming tomorrow, with the grandbairns, for their cooked dinner.

‘We didn’t do too bad, Mick,’ Reenie says into the waiting quiet. Sitting across from her, in the shadow that stands between the beams of moonlight, Mick nods his head. Sometimes his spirit speaks to her, but maybe tonight is too peaceful to interrupt. Reenie sips her sugary tea and waits for the moon to fall and the sun to get up.