Lifesaving for Beginners

the smell of the cheese would knock you off your feet.
    A boat trip to Ireland’s Eye. He rowed. I managed not to get seasick.
    Minnie whistled and said, ‘Oh my,’ when Thomas went ahead and booked a mini-break at a cottage in the middle of nowhere. It actually wasn’t that bad.
    I followed it up with a disastrous night at the opera in Wexford. Thomas fell asleep and snored, loud enough for the usher to issue a stern ‘Shhhh’ towards our row of seats. He laughed that off like it was nothing and then proposed a day at the ploughing champions in Carlow, where he came second in a sheep-shearing competition.
    ‘Kat?’
    I look up. I look at Thomas. He looks the same as he always does. Everything is fine. I have the car sorted. We’re out. Having our dinner. My rib is getting better. The doctor said I might have nightmares. About the accident. He said post-traumatic stress disorder was a possibility. I suppose I should be glad. That I haven’t had nightmares. And no sign of any disorders either.
    I think it’s Thomas the doctor should be worried about. He hasn’t been himself lately. It’s little things, I suppose. Like the apartment, for example. Since the accident, he’s stopped leaving his clothes on the floor and across the backs of various chairs and sofas. I look in his wardrobe and they’re all there, the clothes. Some of them are rolled in a ball on the floor of the wardrobe but they’re all in there. In the wardrobe.
    Minnie said, ‘So?’ when I told her. ‘Isn’t that good news?’
    ‘Yes, but he’s never done it before. Why now? Why is he doing it now?’
    Minnie shook her head and said, ‘You’re some contrary hen.’
    And last week, he went and put his name beside mine on the letterbox. Up until then it was just my name, scribbled on a scrap of paper in blue pen. He went and replaced it with a card that has both our names on it. Typed in some fancy font, in capital letters. He asked me first and I said, ‘Fine.’ But it’s a different story altogether when you come in from the shops one day and there it is. In plain black and white. No more scribbled blue biro on a scrap of paper. It’s as stark as an announcement in the paper.
    He looks at me over the top of his menu. ‘You all right?’
    ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
    ‘I don’t know. You’re quiet. And you haven’t given out yet.’
    ‘About what?’
    ‘About where we’re sitting.’
    ‘What’s wrong with where we’re sitting?’
    ‘There’s a draught.’
    ‘Is there?’
    ‘You hate draughts.’
    ‘Why do you always think you know every single thing about me?’ My tone is sharper than it should be but I don’t think Thomas notices because he smiles.
    He says, ‘I know a fair bit.’
    I study the menu.
    ‘I know that you’ll order the seabass.’
    ‘Is that so?’
    ‘But what you really want is the steak and mushrooms and the onions with chips and a dirty big dollop of tomato ketchup on the side.’
    The waitress arrives and I snap the menu shut and say, ‘The beef stir-fry, please.’
    Thomas orders the bacon and cabbage and potatoes, just as I knew he would. I take a long drink from my glass of wine and try to loosen myself out a bit. I’m as taut as a violin string. I’ve been like this since the accident. The bloody miracle. Stiff.
    After we order, Thomas sits back in his chair. He looks happy for some reason, like something good has happened. He says, ‘Why wouldn’t I be happy?’ when I mention it.
    ‘So,’ he adds. ‘Today was a productive day. You got the car ordered.’
    I say, ‘Yes.’
    ‘The same make. Same model. Same colour. You’d think it was the same car.’
    ‘Just because I was in an accident doesn’t mean I should go and get myself a completely different car. There was nothing wrong with my old one. I liked it. I didn’t want to change it.’
    Thomas shakes his head and smiles. He leans forward and his grey eyes lighten to green in the candlelight. He says, ‘I have a good idea.’
    ‘Another one?’
    Last week he suggested that we buy a new bed. Said our one – which is really my one when you get around to thinking about it – creaks. I said, ‘It does not.’ He said, ‘It does. It creaks like the clappers.’
    I said, ‘It only creaks when we’re . . . you know . . .’
    ‘Having sex?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He said, ‘Which is as often as not.’ That happens to be true. You’d think by now we’d be bored with that caper.
    Our dinners arrive. The stir-fry is more