The final straw.

It was a dish. The final straw.

We were sitting in what once was my kitchen. I had cooked, leaving your least favourite green out.

That was my only conscious act of treachery. I betrayed my mum's recipe.

You ate heartily, with a contagious lust for life, your alto gracing the air around me. My favourite music by a long chalk.

And you asked for seconds.

A million scenes, each with a different motive, took hold of me. I saw myself bringing breakfast to our bed among them.

I was hopelessly lost then. That was my point of no return.