Silence, heavy, hanging. Damp as a foggy wash day, hung the heavy silence, shrieking with the unspoken as they carefully moved around each other’s brittleness. Carefully, carefully not touching the edges; the intense tango of a dreary Sunday afternoon. Despite the potential of glassy acreage letting in the world, nothing less than a sonorous doorbell would break the spell. This self-inflicted muteness could only be penetrated by a witness. But who would brave the tension long if they came a-calling? And if some guileless, breezy caller did come, would the hastily proffered offer of thick coffee - something stronger perhaps, an aperitif - afford sufficient respite from the piercing unspoken knowledge that too many days like this will break them? Too many years left to shift and slide around. Too many weeks - too many Sundays and too long - feeling that silent chill creeping into veins and bones, killing them softly as softly as all the atrophies of age by a lingering, suffocating, damp, heavy, silence.