Victim

He saw the expression on her face and wondered: was it him, was it all his fault? Her face seemed to say so, seemed to accuse him of some crime he could not recall ever committing.

Whatever it was he knew he was to blame. That was the lesson he had learnt from their ten years together. He had learnt that she was always the victim of his insensitivity. No matter what it was he had done (or could be presumed to have done), or - of course - omitted to do, he was the guilty party and she was the victim.

Over the years he had learnt that, like the speed of light, he could only ever get close to pleasing her, giving her the kind of life she knew was her due. It seemed that, just as approaching the speed of light, where mass increases the closer one approaches it, the mass of his failings also increased the closer he got to giving her the life she wanted and - of course - deserved.

He glanced across the room at her. She was reading the newspaper, her mouth pursed in her general disapproval of the world. He had once thought her beautiful. Now he wondered where that beauty had gone. Her hard life, which he had brought about for her and her struggle to cope with the consequences of his failings, had taken it from her.