True.
Not. She smiles.
Twice I've won. He says, Her face drops a little.
You were counting? A snigger now.
And?
Nothing. You took your time is all I am saying.
A minute is all.
Aye, to count to two. He laughs, despite Himself; a snorting bark-like sound and He relaxes into the couch.
Sometimes my mind wanders. He says almost smiling at Her.
Wanders?
Aye.
Where?
Oh, you know, here and there. And then His face drops. And there, He says, almost regretfully.
A sudden pressure fills the room, threatens to squeeze life from blood as sooty clouds manifest above them both, spewing tendrils of black, cold light. The ceiling is somehow impossibly high, but the gloom is palpable, absolute, and crushing.
...
Aye, She exhales. A deep breath, Her eyes forward. Is there tea? Do you know? She asks.
...
Silence. Then, He rises and in the stretching of legs the gloom retreats, and the world rights around Him. Shame hangs there, though, familiar enough to them both.
He moves to the open kitchen that sits behind the couch and begins to clunk around, opening and closing cupboards. Found some, He mumbles, once more at the back of Her head.
Kettle?
On aye, did you remember to get milk?
Could you not just check the fridge? Yes, of course I remembered. Anger now bleeding out from the cracks.
Okay, just saying.
No, you weren't, you were asking. Did I say cracks? I meant vast chasms from which anger might pour.
Ugh, fuck sake!
What?
I don't know why we do this, I don't. The kettle bubbles and shakes furiously.
...
She softens. And sighs.
No, neither do I, but what else is there for it?
Compassion? He pleads.
Yeah, I suppose. But to what end?
The water comes to a boil, the kettle clicks, and He brews two cups of tea.
Tea bag in?
Out. Please.
He slumps back down beside Her.
Thanks, She says.
Aye, He says. Stick the telly on.
About the Creator
クリス Confused
Scottish Musician, born of bad ideals and too much whiskey.
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