Mrs Gosling.
Mrs Ryan Gosling.
That had been then, our wedding day. I had repeated his name so much it stopped being a name.
Now he is lost, somewhere in France, they say. With his plane.
And I am in London all alone.
Soon it will be 1941.
As I finish the last touches someone knocks on the door, then someone else. Before I realise, the whole street is home, drinking and dancing and joking away as if the war is no more.
Nothing better to do, for now, I suppose.
They leave quietly, later on, lights off, hush hush down the road.
I look at the stairs and <HIC> shake my head.
It's a good thing they delivered the sofa today.
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