I lost my husband last year.
It's OK. I'm OK. Don't worry about me. It wasn't for long. I found him again after about 15 minutes.
It took that long because we were at a second-hand book fair with about 300 other people. And nearly all the men in the hall were late middle-aged, white and balding...exactly like my husband. I couldn't recall exactly what my husband was wearing but I was pretty sure it was the black zip-front jersey with the additional layer of cat-fur. The same jersey that I wanted to have a nasty washing-machine accident. I hated that he went out in public wearing it. But judging by the other men in the hall, I wasn't the only wife with this problem.
He'd been at the table with the military books when I'd last seen him. He always headed there first at book-fairs. But when I looked over he was gone. He wasn't looking at the DVDs or the sci-fi books. He wasn't even by the table of history books - usually his second port of call. Then I saw him by the humour books. I sidled on up and made a snarky remark about whether he was looking for Humour for Beginners when I realised it was someone else's husband. I blushed, mumbled that he looked like my husband, and scuttled away.
I'd had fun with another woman's husband at a book-fair once before. A friend's husband. For several years we'd be at the fair at the same time. And I would surreptitiously find the most embarrassing book I could and drop it in the box he was carrying. He wouldn't notice it amongst the others when paying and he'd arrive home with Naughty Nurses erotica or some such thing, much to the delight of my friend who I'd let in on the joke.
But this year he wasn't there. I wished he was as I'd be able to recognise him. I moved on to the hall stage where the sheet music and ancient vinyl were displayed. Putting aside the temptation to buy a country album for my husband's secret Santa present, I gazed out over the sea of grey, pink, and age-spotted heads.
There he was! At the back of the hall, trawling through the art books. Keeping him fixed in my sights, I shuffled my way through the tables stacked with Dan Brown books. He looked up as I approached.
"Oh there you are," he said. "I couldn't see you. Your hair's not as red as it used to be."
And he wondered why he got a bright red baseball cap for Christmas. And why his favourite jersey went missing.
