June only succeeded in smearing the rejected lunch into her pinafore. She’d grown older, greyer in the years since Clive last knew her, & the Alzheimer’s was only progressing.
In a moment of weakness she went looking for the old photo album, digging for it high in the cupboard. Perilous clutter up here: letters, boxes, tools. He was a bugger for that she remembered; just as the old tin clattered onto her head with an explosion of rust.
Clive rounded the corner as she recoiled, her head a cloud of russet metal.
“Oh, THERE you are June.” he smiled.