What Are We Having for Dinner?

Nick stared at the screen and willed the words to write themselves. It had been an hour now, sixty long dreary minutes of stupefied staring at a screen where no text would appear. He had tried just typing, anything to get started, but the story was firmly stuck – no, hiding – somewhere in that weary brain of his and was vehemently refusing to come out. He sighed. Shit. He had a deadline to meet and it was looming big and monstrously over the horizon. He chewed a pen. Write what you know. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? But what did he know about the Old West? He lived in a three bedroomed house in the suburbs of Glasgow. Okay, so his last three books (also about the Old West) had been written after meticulous research and had been successes, so there was no reason why he shouldn’t, couldn’t write another. In fact, this one should be just flowing from his fingertips.

He looked down at his hands. They were lightly resting on the keyboard waiting for their orders. Chewed fingernails on dry, middle-aged hands. He looked up and stared out of the window into their rain battered garden beyond. Think, damnit! Think! Who is my narrator? Who is the hero? How many baddies are there? What do they do to push the hero into action? Why does my head hurt so much? What are we having for dinner? Was the kettle just boiled? I want a cup of tea. And a biscuit.

The small wheels of the office chair rumbled loudly on the laminate as he pushed back from his desk and stood up. Tea, that’s what he needed. Tea would soon get the old creative juices flowing again.

His wife flinched as he put his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. She was standing at the sink in their small kitchen washing that day’s lunch dishes.

“Don’t,” she said, up to the elbows is white fluffy suds, “I’m busy.”

“So, I see,” he replied wondering if he should offer to help out. He quickly decided against it. It was her job to do the housework, it was his to write books and provide the money. It was a simple system, but it worked. “Cup of tea?” He flicked the kettle on.

“No thanks,” she replied, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She neatly folded it and placed it on the side.

“Sure?” he asked secretly pleased he had only himself to worry about.

“Yes,” she replied. “There’s biscuits in the barrel. The ones you like.”

“Great!” His greedy eyes fell on the pottery biscuit barrel that was shaped like a chicken. His wife stood there looking at him, her eyes blinking. She looked like she wanted to say something but something was holding her back. Did she want tea after all? He pondered. I hope not. He was relieved when she only let out a sharp sigh and left the kitchen.

That was odd, he thought then shrugged. Probably just in a mood. Now those biscuits won’t eat themselves. He was already three stone overweight, but who wasn’t at his age? He had never managed to keep the weight off so why try now? He was 55 for Christ’s sake! Too old to diet. Too old to start exercising. Besides, he loved chocolate and he was hungry. He reached for the biscuit barrel and opened it. The jar was full to bursting with all his favourite things. He delved in, scooping out three of the best.

The kettle bubbled and clicked. The hot water was ready. He carefully placed his biscuits on the worktop and fetched a mug from the mug tree. He chose his favourite. The one with ‘Writer at Work’ printed on it and threw in a teabag. The hot water hissed and gurgled as he poured it from the kettle. The teaspoon clinked and clanked against the mug, the now used teabag was flipped out on to the work surface and left to sink into a heap of its own juices. He opened the fridge for milk. Pristine and bursting with food as always, the fridge hummed slightly as he sought his quarry. Ah, there on the door as always! Four pints of semi-skimmed, just what he liked. Milk went in mug, teaspoon stirred chink-chink-chink, teaspoon abandoned next to teabag, milk back in fridge. Chocolate biscuits scooped up. Perfect.

He returned to his office upstairs and sat at his desk. The mug was carefully placed on his ‘Welcome to Mallorca’ coaster, the three biscuits fanned neatly below. He looked at his laptop, at the blank, barren page and folded. Shit! Would this book ever be written? He sat back on his chair and sighed loudly.

“Sarah?” he called.

“Yes?” She was now in their bedroom. No doubt putting ironing away. She was a good wife, his Sarah.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Steak pie and mash,” she replied.

“And gravy? Is there going to be gravy?”

“Yes, Nick.”

“Thanks.”

He continued: “Did you manage to make that appointment for me with the dentist?”

Was there a split second of a pause before she replied? “Yes, it’s in your diary.”

“Thanks.” He added: “And did you pick up my dry cleaning?”

“All hung up in your wardrobe.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Anything else?” she shouted. Was there a tinge of anger in her voice? Sarah never lost her temper and he wondered at it.

“No, thank you, love,” he replied.

He unwrapped a biscuit and stuffed it in his mouth. Delicious! He took a sip of his tea. Hot! The mug went down and he fanned his mouth. Hot, hot, hot! He blew out in short bursts, trying anything to quell the burning on his tongue. Note to self: wait until tea is cool before drinking.

The dog squeezed through the space between the office door and the sill. He sat at Nick’s feet and put his paw on his thigh.

“Sarah!” Nick called. “Brodie needs out for a walk.”

There was silence from the bedroom, though he knew she was still there.

“Sarah? Sarah!! The dog needs out!”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then why didn’t you answer?”

“I was busy.”

“Too busy to answer? Well, that’s not a great state of affairs, is it? What if I was shouting for help or something? Would you have answered then?”

“Why don’t you take him out?” she called.

“I’m writing, you know I can’t be disturbed while the muse has me!”

Silence again. The dog patted his thigh softly.

“Sarah!” he shouted again. “The dog!”

His wife, face too placid, too mild, appeared at the door and called for the dog. Brodie gave Nick a long accusatory stare before going to her, his nails clicking lightly on the floor.

“And keep him out of here, will you? I’m thinking.”

Without a word, she closed the door and he could hear her walk with their pet along the hallway and into the bedroom. The door slammed.

“Now there was no need for that,” Nick muttered as he placed his hands back on the keyboard. He sighed again. Shit, why could he not think of a storyline? It had been so easy before. There was a bang from the bedroom startling Nick from his thoughts.

“What was that bang Sarah? For God’s sake, I’m trying to work in here! Jesus, can’t a man get any peace in which to work?”

“Just the dog jumping down from the bed,” she called.

“He shouldn’t be on the bed. Keep him off it!”

He heard their bedroom door open and close. The dog’s heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs, his great big paws whacking on the carpeted stairs, followed by his wife’s footsteps which sounded lighter, easier. Nick bit his bottom lip. Maybe if I read something it might spark the muse? He thought. I’ve got a graphic novel around here somewhere. Graphic novel! That’s just a posh name for something we used to call a comic.

“Why does everything have to change?” he said aloud as he searched the messy desk drawer. “Ah here it is!”

It was early evening before a rumble in his expansive belly reminded Nick that it was nearly dinner time. He put his graphic novel back in its hiding place, shut down his laptop and stretched. Grunting, he got to his feet and yawned. He had not written a single word all day, but felt that he had done a tonne of work. Maybe Sarah will run me a bath later, he thought as he negotiated the stairs. I deserve it. I’ve been working really hard lately.

“Sarah? Sarah!” he shouted as he skipped down the hallway. He suddenly felt light as if all his cares had melted and puddled on the carpet. He felt this every day at this time when he threw off the shackles of his writing life and became Nick, sleepy bear in front of the telly. His mouth salivated when he thought about dinner. What was it going to be again? Oh yes, his favourite, steak pie and mash. He pushed open the kitchen door to find himself met with a chasm of darkness.

“Sarah?” he said, switching on the light. “Sarah? Where are you?”

He switched on the light and walked into the kitchen. “Brodie?”

There was a white envelope resting against the cruet set on the kitchen table. His name, written in Sarah’s neat loops, was etched on it in black ink. He snatched it up and opened it. It was from her.

Nick,

I’ve had enough of you and your lazy ways. I’ve been seeing a man from work for the past six months and we’re in love. You don’t need to know who it is - you don’t know him. I’m going to live with him now. The steak pie and mash in in the fridge. All you need to do is pop it in the microwave. I’m sure you’ll work out how to use it. I’ve taken Brodie. You never walked him or fed him or showed any sort of interest in him, so I can’t trust you to look after him properly. I’ll phone the kids later and let them know where to get me. Don’t try and use them to bring me back. They’ve both got their own lives now. Besides, they were the ones urging me to leave. Hope you get your latest book finished soon.

Sarah

PS I’ll get the rest of my stuff tomorrow. Be out. PTO.

Nick sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and it creaked ominously under his weight.

“She’s left me!” he whispered. “She’s left me! But why?”

Haven’t I been a good husband? Didn’t I provide everything for her? Shouldn’t she be grateful for everything I’ve done for her? And then he looked around at his neat kitchen, the neat kitchen Sarah looked after, and at the fridge and the freezer that she filled. They were all things that Sarah had purchased from her wages as an admin clerk in a law firm. He thought about the living room furniture and their double bed and the carpet in the hall. She had bought them all and it was she who cleaned them all. In fact, despite working full time, it was Sarah that looked after everything in the house. She cooked and cleaned and washed and ironed and fed him and looked after Brodie. Sarah did everything in the house and she had more than provided for them both. His writing had only brought in a fraction of what they needed. It was Sarah that had been the main money maker, not him.

“Shit!” he said, a thought suddenly coming to him. “How am I going to afford the bills?” Then: “There was a PTO. Please turn over.”

He turned the paper over to find the final nail in his marriage.

PPS Expect a letter from my solicitor this week. I’m divorcing you.

2003 words