While Emily paid for the shopping at Tesco, David idled near the magazine rack. When she began packing the bags, he drifted outside entirely. Emily exited and approached David, who was lighting a cigarette.
“Dave, grab the bags?” Emily requested, holding out two heavy grocery sacks.
David stared as if she’d asked him to rob a bank. “Why can’t you?”
Emily blinked. Since when did “grab the bags” warrant interrogation? Husbands usually helped with heavy lifting. Ridiculous for her to lumber like a packhorse while he ambled beside her hands-free.
“They’re heavy,” she insisted.
“So?” David dug his heels in, smirking as she flushed with irritation. He’d made his stand: no bag-carrying today. *”Take the bags? I’m not her lackey! Or a pushover! I’ll decide when to help! She won’t collapse carrying them,”* he fumed, feeling oddly chuffed about putting his foot down.
“Dave, where are you going? Take these!” Emily called after him, voice wobbling.
The bags weighed a ton—David knew, having piled most into the trolley himself. Their flat was a five-minute stroll, but laden with shopping, it felt marathon-long.
Emily trudged home, tears prickling. Surely he’d joke and return? But no—his silhouette shrank ahead while she hauled the burden in a daze. At their building, she collapsed onto a bench, too weary and humiliated to cry publicly. Worse than offence was the deliberate slight. He’d been so attentive when they dated!
“Hello, ducky!” chimed a voice. Granny Mary—neighbour, surrogate grandmother, and Emily’s sole family since her gran passed—beamed at her.
“Granny Mary!” Emily managed. Mary’s pension was tight; Emily often spoiled her with treats.
Spotting kippers, custard creams, tinned peaches, and other goodies in the bags, Granny Mary teared up. “You shouldn’t have!”
“Keep it all,” Emily insisted, suddenly feeling guilty for not visiting more. After kissing Mary goodbye, Emily climbed upstairs.
David greeted her in the hallway, munching crisps. “Where’s the shopping?” he asked breezily.
“What shopping? The bags you helped carry?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic!” He chuckled nervously. “Not still cross?”
“Not at all,” Emily said calmly. “I’ve just drawn conclusions.”
David stiffened. He’d expected tears, not icy composure.
“Conclusions?”
“I haven’t got a husband.” Emily sighed. “I thought I’d married a man. Turns out I wed a prize pillock.”
“Steady on!” David pretended outrage.
“What’s confusing? I want a husband who acts like a man. You clearly want a wife who acts like one too.” She paused. “Best find yourself a husband then.”
David reddened, fists clenching, but Emily was already packing his duffel bag. He protested to the end—how could she wreck their marriage over *bags*?
“Everything was grand till now! So you carried bags—big deal!”
“I trust you’ll carry your own duffel,” Emily cut in, shoving him out.
She knew this was merely the opening salvo. Forgive this, and next he’d demand she tarmac the driveway.
I Thought I Was Walking Down the Aisle…
