Particular

I looked down at my husband’s grave. The funeral had been yesterday and the flowers were already drooping. I stooped and pulled out a faded leaf. Alan always liked things just so, and it was the least I could do for his memory.

He had liked his tea brewed for exactly four and a half minutes. He had insisted that his newspaper was placed at the side of his breakfast dish with the sports pages showing. He had always checked that his dinner knife was exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table. I accommodated his little ways as the years went on. After all, a prize winning research chemist had to have a few little foibles after working with dangerous chemicals all these years.

But while he was so particular about the brand of salt on the table and the angle of the curtains when they were opened, it was a shame that he had paid less attention to other details. It was always risky taking a mistress who worked in the same lab as you and who also dealt with dangerous poisons. And his genius for new compounds was lacking when it came to cyber security. I had known all his personal passwords for years, and I suppose plenty of other people had as well. Perhaps most dangerously, he forgot that once, long ago, I had also worked in the lab with him on dangerous chemicals, the same lab I regularly visited to bring his freshly home-made lunch, with the sandwiches always cut on the diagonal.

The police had found the email apparently from my husband to his mistress, ending their relationship. They had found poison in the mistress’s bag, coyly left next to my husband’s coat in the cloakroom where I left his lunch. They had ascribed the hysterics she had to guilt.

I straightened the roses – not lilies. My husband had been particular about flowers as well. If only he had been as particular and paid attention to me.

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