Sunday again

It's ten to eight on a Sunday evening, some months later. It's been another bad week. There was a row with your sister on Wednesday, and you've a presentation tomorrow that you're dreading.

At four o'clock your partner looked up from the laptop and said, "You all right?" The word "fine" was on its way out. You said, "Not really. Give me a minute."

You stood in the kitchen and ran through the list. You didn't want advice about your sister, and you didn't want to be left alone. You wanted the presentation off your mind for an hour, and you wanted company.

You went back in. "It's been a horrible week, and I'm dreading tomorrow. Could you do bedtime tonight? And then could we just watch something daft together? I don't want to talk about any of it."

They closed the laptop. "Course. Go and sit down. I'll bring you a tea when they're in bed."

It wasn't perfect. At twenty to eight there was shouting from upstairs about toothpaste, and you nearly went up, and didn't. The tea arrived with slightly too much milk in it. Halfway through the programme your partner said, "Is it the thing with your sister?" and you said, "I really don't want to talk about it tonight," and they said, "Sorry. Right. Daft telly."

In the first few weeks it was harder. The first plain ask came out sounding like an accusation, and there was a small row. The second was met with "What's brought this on?" In the third week you said "fine" on a Thursday and then went back on Friday morning to correct it. Your partner looked relieved, which you hadn't expected.

There have been two refusals. You were put out by both. Neither was the end of anything.

Some things have changed that you didn't ask for. Last week there was tea in bed on a Tuesday, unprompted, because in March you'd mentioned that you love it. On Sunday evenings you now spend ten minutes asking each other about the week ahead. That's how you found out that your partner has wanted, for about three years, to be asked about their work more often, and had never said so.

Your partner still doesn't read your mind. On an ordinary day they still can't tell whether you're quiet because you're tired or because something's wrong. They ask, and now they get an answer.

You go to bed at half past ten. The presentation is still tomorrow. The sentence that used to go round in your head on nights like this was that they never notice. Tonight it isn't there.

If you've read this far and changed nothing yet, try one thing. The next time someone you love asks if you're all right and you aren't, say "Not really." Then tell them one thing that would help.