The cold droplets ran down the glass of the milk bottle slowly, her fingers cold to the touch, but steady they were. Making her way to the kitchen she placed the bottle of milk on the counter, the newspaper followed and finally she let the keys slip from her fingers once more into the dish that waited for them. Picking up the old blue kettle she poured water into it, and placed it on to the old stove. She retreated back to the table and lent against it facing the kettle. She started to weep.
A few minutes had passed and the kettle started to whistle its sweet tune. She wiped away the tears and started to make the coffee. she got out a couple of mugs and filled them with some ground up coffee and a little sugar in each. George made his way down the stairs, the steps creaking making a yawning sound as he did. His grey hair all shaggy and he clung onto his rope crossing it holding it tight to his chest. His naked feet made soft slapping noises as he walked along the cold stone kitchen floor. She stirred the coffee and left it to settle in the mugs, the golden bubbles resting in the centre. He sat down but only for a second before scratching his stubble and got back up placing some bread into the toaster.
‘Two slices?’ he asked her. ‘No I’m good thanks’.
He placed two in for himself and returned to his seat pulling the newspaper towards him.
‘I thought you were going to leave?’ he said whist browsing the front page, opening it he continued.
‘I saw all the bags packed, you did that fast’.
She poured the milk into the mugs and stirred furiously. ‘They’ve been packed now for a week now, i was going to leave you before but-’
‘What? The death of my son-‘ The my in his sentence had a sharpness to it ‘That made you stop and think, oh that poor bastard, I’ll stay and be the good wife, comfort him a little’
Without hesitation of thought of any kind, her hand picked up the open bottle and threw it across the room, turning to him as she did, tears streaming down her eyes. ‘I am the good wife’ her voice shaked a little at the anger that poured from the words. They were both stunned by this sudden display of anger. But she carried on. ‘I’m sorry you lost your son, I am. But I have lost a lot more than that, I have given up so much to be here now with you. With the man I loved’
His face changed from shocked to confused. ‘The man you loved?’ he threw the paper to the table and rose up. ‘You don’t love me anymore?’ ‘I’ve never loved you, not this’ she said pointing towards him. ‘Not this drunken mess, this angry bitter man’ He scoffed and turned away from her but she moved forward and continued. ‘I’m in love with the man that is kind, that kind sweet man that had so much passion and lust in him’. Then nothing, nothing but the sniffling sound she made as she wiped away the tears. He too started to weep.
‘Where has he gone?’ she said softer now ‘Where is that man, that is loved and loving? The man that would write poetry pure to the soul. That smiled and joked.’ He started to fold over the chair. ‘The man that loved to play’
His body fell to the floor and he sat there, his face buried in his hands. His words almost unattainable as he cried. He cried for his son, he cried for his marriage, he cried for his work and he cried a hateful cry towards himself. Oh how he hated what he had become. She was right; he’s not the man he used to be. Her voice became even softer and she crouched beside him. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow, i need some time alone, I think we both do’
Her hand rested on his shoulder and her head touched his. He turned and kissed her hand ‘I’m sorry’ he said. Those words she had been waiting to hear come from those lips for so long. She was shocked by this but didn’t let it show. But she realised she had broke him, he was here on the floor shaking. Maybe this was the turning point, this is where he will change. She didn’t want to leave him, but she couldn’t stand there anymore watching him drink is life away, but she was going to leave him, and she knew it was cruel.
~
Chris was wearing a bright blue work shirt, and smart black pants finished off with black work shoes. He was kneeling down with a pad in one hand pen in his mouth and with his free hand he was pulling stock forward. In his head counting, he wrote down the stock and the number in his head and continued to do so throughout the store. Customers would come to him asking for advice or direction to the item they want. If they didn’t come to him he went them, with those pretentious smiles on his face, and sweetness in his voice that made him sick inside. He hated people coming to him when he was shopping and he hated this even more, being one of those people.
Co-workers talking, amongst themselves, working when needed. He always thought that the store he worked in had a hurried feel to it, he could never really describe how, but the colour of the walls, a pale peach slightly dirty from dust and years, the floor worn the low lights that hung down, no natural light at all. The store would always be warm, have a sticky atmosphere to it, and in summer would make everybody sweat a bitter stench that would hang in the air for hours, no air conditioning to fight it away. Also at the back of the store was a small lift making it easier to bring stock out into the store.
Pushing the ‘Down’ button an echoing noise shook the thin metal door and softly retreated. As with the lift he made his way downstairs, the stairs old wooden things that creaked with every step. He made his way into the storeroom, a large open room, concrete walls and flooring. It was cool down here, cool and refreshing. A clash and shudder as the lift stopped, the mechanical hissing noise that he was able to hear also stopped.
Checking through the pages on his notebook he pulled the stock that was needed and returned to lift to the shop floor, once more following suit, up the old dusty stairwell.
Routine can be a great thing. Routine is how some people like to live, allows them to stay in control, feel god like in there ordinary days. They wake up at a time they desire, they eat when and what they want to eat and have always eaten. The wear there clothes, colours and styles matching there personality, smartly cursing through the day in a constant routine, start work, have coffee break with their work college (likable as a person, but not known enough to call a friend) talking the same old crap, back stabbing, joking, comforting or confronting. The routine continues they work, then dinner discussing the same discussions agreeing in the right places. Get home, eat, relax, sleep and start the same old routine again the next day. Chris was not one of these people, and for this his job was draining every bit of lust for life.
The shop had closed and he made his way to the coffee shop, the notebook would hopefully be there waiting for him behind the counter, but more so than that he hoped Donna would be there too.
The notebook was his escape from routine full of thoughts and ideas, wishes and memories, the book was a full of papers torn, worn and loose. There where plain pages mixed in with drawings and sketches of people, his friends smiling. There where pictures of people, likely strangers sitting reading books, newspaper, drinking coffee and smoking.
The pages stitched into the notepad where littered with words running along the lines, these words formed sentences and these sentences formed paragraphs. Some pages had lists, others held fragments of ramblings that would have oozed through his mind sipping his coffee. Words crossed out, words circled. Some pages had poems of no real meaning, other poems talked about love, war pain and others where humorous. To him this wasn’t just a notebook; it was his soul displaying his sanity and his emotions.
The rain was light and the wind lighter, the pace in which he walked faster than usual his hair bouncing as did the bag he had hanging from his shoulder. The streets where busy, and although the night sky had not completely taken over the streetlamps displayed there colours to the world. The rushing sound of cars and the splashing sound of the small puddles that were shaken from there slumber, the chatter as people walked by was a minuscule sound as he wore his headphones, listening to the music, fast and loud this was the fuel that drove him to walk the speed he was.
That thing he hated so much had crept up on him again as he thought to himself ‘Mondays, she always works Mondays’. He pulled down the head phones and let them rest round his neck and opened the door, he was facing the counter stepping in the bell pronounced his entrance, and she turned to him. He smiled making his way to the counter, she smiled pulling back some of her hair, leaning on the counter. ‘So the usual?’ she asked
He slapped the counter in tune with his fingers (just something he does) ‘You bet’. Money was exchanged and she started to turn reaching out for a mug. ‘Oh, and one other thing, there isn’t a notebook behind the counter by any chance?’
‘Notebook?’ turning back to face in.
‘Yeah I left my notebook here on Friday by mistake, completely forgot to pick it up’
She smiled that ever so sexy smile again, the one where her tongue pokes out between her teeth just enough for her to look innocent.
‘Brown leather?’
‘Yup yup’ he said the excitement in his eyes gleaming like a star that’s just been born.
‘Sure, I’ll bring it you with your drink’ With that she returned to her job, reaching for the mug and he made his way to the small table he always sits (routine creeps up on you all the time).
Chapter 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7
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