I got up when the sky was still grey.

I washed all the dishes, dried them with a towel and stacked them in the kitchen cupboard.

I gathered up all the clothes that were on the bedroom floor and put them in the washing machine. I poured powder into the dispenser and turned the dial to 90 degrees.
I opened the cupboard under the stairs. Your old coat was hanging on its hook at the back of the door. I was really good. I saw it, but I didn’t try to smell it, didn’t even touch it. I just got the vacuum cleaner out and hoovered all the carpets, backwards and forwards I pulled and pushed until I lost all sense of time, until each twist of wool bristled like new.
I watered your plants with the little green watering can you keep under the sink.
I made myself a cup of milky tea and a jam sandwich and attempted to do a crossword puzzle in the newspaper.

And then, in the column right beside it, I saw an advert for something that looked rather interesting.

My drooping head flings backwards and wakes me with a jolt. I’m greeted by my wild-eyed reflection in the train window. I look terrifying. I haven’t shaved. My face is grey, and the lurid green graffiti that is sprayed on the glass slashes my cheek, making me look like a savage. Something about my face is different and I realise I’m wearing your glasses. Large ladies’ glasses that make me look ridiculous. You’re right. I have to be careful. Things can easily slip.

Once I’ve recovered, I wonder if I should be worried about our current predicament. I take a deep breath. My heart rate appears normal, I feel no sense of panic. There is bound to be a perfectly rational explanation. Points. Signals. We’ll get moving soon. But what if we’re stuck here for a long time? Say, an hour? Two? What if, God forbid, I’m caught short? I read somewhere that scientists found 32 types of urine in the upholstery of one of these seats. I know. You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers, but even so. Thirty-two! I rearrange my buttocks and wonder whether it’s possible to piss into a can.

I want to be able to tell you about all of this. Later, when I get home, I want to tell you what happened.

I want to open the door and smell stewed pears. You’d be standing at the stove, your apron splattered with tomato juice, like you’d just been sprayed with bullets. What kept you? you’d ask. We got stuck in tunnel, I’d say. We were there for nearly three hours before they came to rescue us. I had to relieve myself in a tin can. That can’t have been easy, you’d say. It wasn’t, I’d say. At first, some people started shouting at the Underground staff. They didn’t want to leave their belongings behind. It must have been the strain, you’d say. They gave us orange bibs, I’d say. And torches. We had to walk in single file along the track all the way back to Camden Town. They warned us not to touch the cables on the walls. As thick as pythons, they were. And we had to be very careful where we put our feet. Was it because of the rats? you’d ask. Goodness, I’d have been terrified. I suppose it must have been, I’d say. Go and have yourself a bath, you’d say. Relax. I’ll make us a nice ham salad for our tea. You must be famished.

You always said I had an over-active imagination.

I wait to see if I might start crying.

I want to show you what I’ve bought.

I peep inside the carrier bag and pull out a box. I read everything written on it. THE INCREDIBLE HEAT RESISTANT OVEN GLOVE EXCLAMATION MARK ONE SIZE FITS ALL EXCLAMATION MARK MADE IN CHINA THIS GLOVE REALLY WORKS DOT DOT DOT MRS M LEXINGHAM KENTUCKY DO NOT WASH.

I open the box, take out the glove and slip each finger in place. It fits, well, like a glove. I hold up my hand and admire it. The exterior is metallic, like a pan scourer or something you might see in a science fiction programme on TV. But inside is soft and silky, like something newborn.

The girl has opened her eyes properly now and is watching me waving my glove around, curious. Have I been talking to myself? Oh no, she’s smiling at me. She thinks I’m a lunatic. I’m unsure quite what to do. Should I say something?

‘Do you want to try it?’

She smiles some more and nods. Her teeth are yellow and crooked. She takes the glove from me and slides her hand into it. She has tiny hands, almost unformed.

‘It feels nice,’ she says. ‘What is it?’

I show her the box. And then roll up my coat sleeve so she can see my arm.

‘It’s an oven glove,’ I say.

‘Why?’

Because my wife died.

Because I must carry on living and I don’t know how.

Because I talk to a ghost.

Because I’m afraid I’m losing my mind.

Because.

Because.

‘To stop myself getting burnt when I cook things,’ I say.

‘What do you cook?’

‘I’m afraid I’m rather a beginner. Today, I thought I might try a piece of fish. Maybe cod.’

‘You must make sushi. No cooking!’ She laughs.

‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’m not really a one for foreign food.’
I look at her.

‘No offence.’

The speaker crackles.

‘I’m going deaf. Can you hear what he says?’

‘No.’

She shakes her head and hands me back the glove. It’s warm inside from her puppyish hands. She reaches into her bag and offers me an apple.

‘Yes?’ She says.

‘Yes,’ I say.

I bite into the tight, waxed skin, afraid for my teeth. The juice is tart and makes the inside of my mouth sing like sherbet. A trickle runs down my chin and onto the lapel of my coat.

The girl gives me a smile and puts her headphones back inside her ears.

I eat the apple, the whole thing, including the core.

And then the lights flicker again and the engine groans back into life.