they sat in the cafe at the station. luke warm and weak coffee sat ignored in paper cups. a half-eaten slice of carrot cake waited to be finished.she looked at him, the man she had spent half her life with.the jaw line beginning to go; the flicks of grey over the ears and in a weak moustache. why did he keep it? optimism, she supposed. the only sign he was ever optimistic was wasted on that. he sat in baggy top, to cover a developing paunch, a mark of too many good business lunches, and black baggy jeans. they would have been slim fit once, tight over tight bottom she loved to squeeze. but no more. that too was gone. how had they got so old? she took a tissue and compact mirror from her bag. damped the tissue with the end of her tongue, and gently worked below her eyes to remove smeared mascara. what a sight. she didn’t want to make a scene. even now. that wasn’t like her. perhaps if she had been more forceful in her wants things would have been different. he would have been different. she would have complained about the late nights, the breath that tasted of stale beer, the fumbled sex. she would have demanded care and attention, respect. she would have demanded a child. but those moments were lost in time. ‘no use crying over spilt milk,’ her mother would say. stupid cow. what did she know of struggling? father had given her everything: a house in the suburbs, two holidays a year, her own car. and died. but here she was with her partner sat in a railway station cafe. not even a ring on her finger. in all that time. and now he was leaving. leaving for her.