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"I really must get around to looking through some of that correspondence today," said John. "It's been piling up for centuries, and if I don't start it soon I'll never get it done."

"Very good, dear. Would you mind popping out to the shops first? We're right out of potatoes and I was going to do a roast today."

"Of course. Would you like anything else while I'm out?"

"No thanks, just the potatoes. The larder's stocked right up at the moment." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek on the way out of the door.

On the way back from the shops, he met his friend.

"Morning Luke, how's things?"

"Oh, you know. Same old same old. How's the missus?"

"She's well. Went out to night school again last night."

"That's odd, I went to Matthew's last night to give him back his recording of 'Broken Down Angel' and I saw her there."

"That can't be right." John's brow formed itself into a tight V-shape. "She went to her cookery lesson, she said so. She told me all about it in bed, right down to the teacher rescuing Mary's cremated shepherd's pie with a bit of parsley and a leek."

"But I saw her with Matthew. They were sharing a bottle of wine, and looked as if they'd been there a while. Anyway, why would she go to cookery lessons? Your wife's a perfect cook."

John's jaw hardened into place. "You calling my wife a liar?"

"Come on John, you know I wouldn't. But I can't help what I saw, and I'm telling you she was there."

John said something very rude then, something almost unprintable. Luke then let out a torrent of language that would have made a cherub blush. The edited version is that he didn't want to lose a friend over a silly misunderstanding, but since John was being so pig-headed it wouldn't be much of a loss. The two men parted company; Luke muttering to himself, John carrying his sack of potatoes with his fists clenched.

"Oh, you remembered, good." He dropped the potatoes, without unclenching his fists. "Love, what's wrong?" He remained silent. "Oh. You spoke to Luke. That fool, I knew he'd open his big mouth."

"You," he said, "do not speak of Luke." She shut up. "How long?"

She lowered her head. "Far too long," she whispered. "Long enough to know it was wrong."

He closed his eyes, squeezed the eyelids shut to stop the tears coming out; they did anyway. There was only one question to ask, though he knew that whatever she answered, it could only ever twist the knife, make the pain much greater. He had to ask though.

"Why?"

The answer was a long time in coming, which was his guarantee that it was true, that it came from the innermost reaches of her soul. Even when she opened her mouth, the words assembled themselves before they would leave her lips, formed themselves up, it seemed, into waves of verbal platoons to assault his heart.

"For a long time now, I have felt myself slowly dying. We live this never-ending honeymoon, this life without cares, and nothing happens. We hear about atrocities against humanity in far-off lands; we see the evidence arrive in human form, shabby, and amazed to have reached this better place. Every once in a while we fight, and you bring me flowers, and I make your favourite apple pie, and we make up. Sometimes you go out with your friends, to that same pub with the same music, and even if you come home late I never worry, because nothing could possibly happen, because nothing ever happens here, here in Paradise."

He pondered upon her words for a long time, and then, slowly and uncertainly, he placed his arms around her in a loving embrace. His eyes were open now, and the tears flowed from them freely. With decision, he released himself from her grasp and left the house, wiping his eyes as he went. She let her arms drop, and her gaze with them, lower and lower until her chin was almost on her chest.

There was a knock upon Luke's door.

"Oh, you."

"I'm sorry, old friend. You were right; I should have seen it coming from miles off."

"No, I'm sorry. I was harsh, and it was none of my business."

"Nonsense. Without you to prod me into seeing what I could not accept, I would be forever in the same fantasy world."

"How did it go?"

"Not well." He felt the pain coming back. "It's going to be hard to come to terms with, but it's in the past now, and I'm just going to have to live with it."

"Good luck. What's the first step?"

She heard a sound, looked up. He stood in the doorway, brandishing flowers. She smiled warmly.

"Ah, just in time for dinner. I made apple pie."

"Apple pie? My favourite!"

He put the flowers in water, and they ate their dinner by the light of candles, and they went to bed, and slept like logs. It had been a long day, but it was just another day in Paradise.

They awoke the next morning, and washed and dressed and breakfasted and spoke of the day to come. They had forgiven, and forgotten, and it was as if nothing had ever happenned.

"I really must get around to looking through some of that correspondence today," said John. "It's been piling up for centuries, and if I don't start it soon I'll never get it done."