Only day 2 of my 30 days and I’m struggling to think up a story let alone write it. This from someone who was constantly interrupted while writing to quickly jot down another story idea. I am determined to do this practice so I will attempt to stop censoring myself – that’s boring, that’s been written, how do you plan to tell that, you can’t write anything worth reading anymore. All those lovely snide remarks clanging around in my otherwise empty head. Here goes nothing.
Every morning he dressed in his freshly laundered shirt and dry-cleaned suit, sat to a hot cup of coffee and breakfast. Some days it was bacon, eggs, mushrooms, grilled tomato and toast, others a muffin still warm from the oven or a scone or croissant. His own personal hotel buffet in the comfort of his home while he read the news on his phone.
When he had had his fill he wiped his mouth on his sparkling white cloth napkin, dumped it on his plate, sometimes in the sticky goo of egg yolk, collected his keys, mumbled a goodbye with his eyes on his mobile as he disappeared through the door.
Dinnertime brought another fantastic feast – usually within half an hour of his return – if he wasn’t entertaining a client at one or other top-class restaurant that he frequented. All this food, without him ever setting foot in a supermarket or shopping online. A mere mortal living the life of a king. The only thing that was missing was her dressing him.
On July 7th, the day after his forgotten fifteenth wedding anniversary there was no warm cup of coffee when he reached out for it and the table was bare except for a note.
Gone to tend to my ill mother. The pantry is stocked, and laundry done.
He looked to the kitchen and had no idea how to begin making a cup of coffee, nor breakfast and neither did he feel that it was his place to be doing something so menial. There were places for such times that would serve him well until she got back.
As anticipated, she only received one message in the week and a half she’d been gone, enquiring when she would be returning. She dutifully replied that she did not know, as her mother’s condition had not improved – not that he had asked about either of their health – as she wiped the beach sand from her feet, stared at the gentle lapping waves and sipped the pretty colourful umbrella drink.
Today she expected something more. He would not have a clean shirt or underwear and wouldn’t have a clue how to get either. Such a pity she’d forgotten her phone in the hotel room.
by Debbie Gravett © 2020.11.26
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay