Good grief
She is not what she used to be.
She wanted to go home. The sun was rising outside. She took her keys; no, not this one. Try this one; no, not either. Got it, it’s the red one, should keep it in her mind.
She opened the door, just barely a hall greet her, take off the shoe, put down the groceries, whatever. Until she passed the man lying in bed, surrounded by empty booze bottles.
What a mess.
She used the plastic from her groceries to gather the glass bottle, one, two, three, maybe. After all, she had a man to look after. So she prepared: washed her hand, the dishes, then the food. And to prepare the food, she cut bread by its diagonal section, chopped vegetable and scrambled egg. Packaging it into sandwiches, shirking from muscle memory. She poured a tea, and squeezed lime into it.
Then she went to wake up her man.
He got up, had a bath, brushed his teeth. In the dinner room, he ate the sandwich and drank the tea. But he only a bit into it and left it as that.
Annoying, whatever.
She ate the bitten sandwich and packed the rest into the lunchbox, with ‘You’re fine there? <3’ written on a piece of paper.
She handed the lunchbox to the smiling receptionist. Another person nearby offered to deliver it to him directly, when
she hadn’t even asked. After all, coworkers should help each other.
The man sits at his cubicle. His desk is cluttered with flowers, presents, and other well-meaning gestures. He sighs.
Too much to bear, eh?
A coworker approaches with the lunchbox.
“Hey, man. I know you’re still coping… Here, lunchbox. Just for you.”
“Put it here,” among the rest of the platitudes…
“Just open it…”
The man sighs again, he decided to follow the suggestion. Oh, just a scrambled egg sandwich. With a paper?
‘You’re fine there? :)’
A tear decided to muddied the message.
He has lost his wife. And with her, his life. No one to greet him at the door. No one to prepare his meals. No routine, no, not even a home worth living. Just a ghost where she used to be.
What is this even about?
What does any of this even mean?
He doesn’t know.
And he might never find out…