Saoirse and her husband John take turns cooking dinner; tonight it is John's turn, and he left work an hour early to go to the shops and buy the ingredients for one of Saoirse's favourite meals, glistening slabs of grilled salmon accompanied by a Mediterranean salad and sourdough garlic bread. Saoirse smells the warm welcoming scents of roasted garlic and butter as soon as she walks through the door; she stops to absorb the scene and to marvel at the ordinariness of it, the way she is able to smile at John and go and obediently wash and dry her hands and sit down at the table as if this is just any normal Tuesday evening. Â
John: How was your day? Saoirse: Fine. How was yours? John: Back-to-back meetings.Â
Saoirse screws her mouth up sympathetically.
John: Why aren't you eating? You're just pushing the food around your plate. Isn't grilled salmon your favourite? Saoirse: I'm sorry, John. I don't have much of an appetite. John: Did you have a big lunch? Saoirse: I didn't actually eat anything for lunch. John: Why's that? Was there an emergency at the clinic?
Saoirse stares at her plate and shakes her head.
Saoirse: I'm sorry, honey. I know you went to a lot of trouble but I'm just not hungry. I might have picked up that virus that's going around. I think...I think I'd better go upstairs and have a lie down. Will you forgive me?








