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window of his Chrysler asking to borrow something – a phone perhaps, or something equivalent given the fact that his phone does not have a signal – that he would, out of hand, refuse. And that Ursula, in contrast, would be magnanimous. Perhaps she was, as he had suspected all along, simply the better human being.
    Now that he had started a confession, he might as well admit, to himself at least, that he was quite relieved to have missed the marriage guidance session. Would it be going too far to suggest that he was glad of this traffic jam? Perhaps. But only just. Either way, his chances of avoiding the next one were slim.
    And of course, he was aware that underpinning it all was a single issue. No, not a single issue; a single woman. That was wrong – the games words play! A married woman. She was on his mind all the time, from the moment his eyes peeled open in the morning until they lowered at night. And throughout the night. He confessed to himself that he missed her terribly, eventhough they had met, in secret, only last week. And the married woman’s name – the name that was driving him crazy – was Nicole.
    Night had fallen profoundly now. All ambiguity had faded from the sky. Ursula rested her head against the window, feeling numb and dead like a puppet.

Waitrose Jim
    Max slammed the car door behind him and looked around. He was trembling. He took a deep breath; the night air had cooled, it entered his lungs like a balm. Another deep breath, a third, and he was better composed. He made his way along the long lines of traffic, negotiating wing mirrors and half-open doors with awkward rotations of his hips. Most of the engines were quiet now, and the few that still grumbled were sending wispy smoke signals into the atmosphere. He glanced into cars as he passed them, hoping for a friendly face. Everybody seemed to be groping their way towards sleep. Many dozed already; many gazed listlessly into space, trying to make themselves vulnerable to sleep’s approach. All were emotionless. He walked on.
    At times like these, it was his habit to remind himself of his wedding speech, as if to conjure up the love that had expressed itself then. He still knew parts of it by heart: how they had met through a mutual friend, all those years ago. How he had fallen head-over-heels almost overnight, how he had even given up a trip to Spain with the lads for her. They had loved it, the wedding guests. And now he tried to remember it, as if, like some ancient amulet, the recollection of that previous man’s emotions could ease his suffering now.
    The previous night, Carly had been unable to sleep. After more than an hour of comforting – for Ursula had given up – he had lain beside her on her bed, his hand on her fragile shoulder, and waited as the room darkened, its shadows multiplying into a smothering thicket, and her breath slowed intothat particular rhythm of sleep. And he had been struck, all at once, by the imperfections of the days of his life, of everyone’s lives, all sullied by concerns about the past, about the future, insecurities and angers and unrequited passions, while the moon shone on and the breeze passed unheard above the trees overhead. And he had remembered the members of his family who were gone, realised how rarely he thought of them now. And he had thought that his heart would break.
    Night clung to his shirt in the sour streetlight. The people in their vehicles seemed so remote; they might as well be waxwork dummies, seated there for effect. He was just about to return to the car, when he caught somebody’s eye. It was a delivery man, clad in a uniform, skirting the Waitrose van. The man paused, looked about to bolt, then smiled weakly. Perhaps it was his obvious consternation that infused Max with a sudden courage.
    â€˜Awful, isn’t it?’ said Max. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
    The man nodded, sweeping his eyes along the cars and