Muriel wonders out loud why she’s not seen Bins for two weeks. We’ve just completed our weekly grocery outing and are now at the Creamery, enjoying our sweet reward. “The neighbour,” I say. Muriel wants to know what that means. “Her name’s Suzie,” I say. “She’s young and hot and wears 10 -inch high heels.”

Muriel frowns. “Wait: are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I ask her what she thinks I’m saying. “You know... I mean, is he... you know...” She doesn’t want to say the words. I grin and shrug. “All I know is that he spends all his spare time with her and she has a lot of shelves that need fixing.” Muriel’s frown deepens. “Does he come home for meals? Does he come home at night?” I nod. “Yes, he comes back. Eventually. Sometimes I’m asleep. In the beginning he didn’t stay out for meals, at least not for dinner. But for the past couple of days he’s been out continuously. I don’t know when he got back last night and this morning he was still asleep when I left the house with you.”

A thunder cloud is developing directly over Muriel’s head. “And? When you do speak to him, what does he say?” I shrug. “I don’t ask him anything and he doesn’t say anything either.” Lightning is starting to flash overhead. “Girl...” says Muriel, “I was going to tell you that Bins maybe needs a dose of electro-shock therapy. But listening to you? I’m starting to think maybe you’re the one who needs brain surgery!” I make a funny gargoyle face to show that I don’t agree. “Nah,” I say. “That’s not my style. I mean, I don’t want him to think I care.” Muriel leans across the table and skewers me with a stern expression. “Do you care?”

I look at the cherry on my ice-cream. I look out the window. I eat the cherry. “Umm,” I say. “Yes. I think so. Or. I don’t know. There’s never been any point scolding Bins or arguing with him. We’ve been together for more than 30 years and that’s certainly something I’ve noticed. So yes: I frankly detest this third wheel in the bicycle of my life. I hate it that Bins is almost never home. And at the same time...” I trail off.

Muriel bites down on that trailing remark. “It’s just easier to stay put? Is that what this is about — inertia?” I make the gargoyle face again. “As I see it? Bins is a free agent. Being married doesn’t matter to him. In his deepest heart, he’s Just Bins. A singular being. I don’t own him. He doesn’t own me. We’re together today because it suits us. But tomorrow, who knows? Everything could change. Or maybe the day-after tomorrow. Or maybe today.”

I can see I’m losing Muriel’s respect. “Don’t you care about him enough to fight?” she asks. I look away. “I care, but I won’t fight,” I say. “His free spirit is what makes him Bins.” I look at her. “I can’t lose what I never really owned.”

( Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, in this weekly column )

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