From Memoirs of (D)eath, chapter: War
The eye-searingly teal clock’s hands passed the 5, she felt a pit in her stomach begin to form. The color left her face, and she was extinguished. Fridays are when he comes home early, these days mean a welcoming at 4 pm over a fresh-brewed mug of coffee with his favorite croissants from the bakery across the street, catching up as she would put the orchestra on the record player, then they’d hurry to our favorite Italian place. Not today, though.
Today was bleak, it was cloudy and muggy, unlike the usual penultimate golden rays of late Fridays. The city was as choked as she was, the roads were packed with cars, and the sidewalks filled with faceless masses. Distant homing and indecipherable chattering were the only sympathies she would hear tonight.
Her stomach growled, causing her to break her gaze from the balcony windows, shifting it towards the two now-cold mugs of coffee and the croissants which were left out for a minute too long. She raised the mug to her mouth, only met with the bitter-sour sting of the grossly lukewarm beverage.
She doesn’t even like coffee but poured out the rest of it, pretending the drain was his face and the cup was still piping hot. She took a bite out of the pastry, which was miserably stale.
She sulked for a while over the counter, the fourth Friday in a row that he was coincidentally busy, not even bothering to send a damn text or call. She remembered her own hunger, today’s meal won’t be any rigatoni alla carbonara, but it might warm this freezing heart.
She pulled out the cutting board and a knife, then went to the fridge, carefully picking out the ingredients for a single-person meal. She broke upon the Riesling they saved for special parties, pouring herself a glass. She wanted to confront him, so she kicked his shit out to the curb, call him and spill out all of the possible curses she could. She sliced through the vegetables cleanly, quickly dicing then sliding them into the pan, accompanied by a single egg with a broken yolk.
She moved away from the pan, holding her fingers to her temples as she felt frustrations build. After dinner, she will talk to dad. After that? She is not even sure.