"Do you want tea?" she asks. It's barely a whisper. she's tired. She's leaning against the door frame. He doesn't respond. He might not have heard, she thinks. She clears her throat. Tries to lift up her voice. "Would you like some tea?". He grunts. He doesn't look at her. This time, she asks even louder. "DO YOU WANT SOME TEA?"
He's annoyed. She can tell from the flash of irritation in his eyes when he finally looks at her. "Do you have to have to ask me this every day? You know I want tea at this time. Just go make some" He snaps. And turns back to his book, his newspaper, his laptop, his phone, his little box of nothing.
She comes back and places his steaming mug of tea on a coaster. She makes it just the way he likes it. He doesn't acknowledge her. He doesn't know she's there.
She leaves. At the door to his room, she stops. "I was just trying to make conversation" she says. She wipes one stray tear off her cheek.
She hears a shout from inside. "How many times have I told you, this is too much sugar!" Then she hears a grumble. "Never mind". He says.
She slowly walks back to her garden. Her bones are now creaky. Her sight is now blotchy. At least the flowers in her garden are in bloom.
She's lonely.
They've been at this for fifty years.
YOU ARE READING
ALL MY DOORS
Short StoryA collection of short stories. My short stories are exactly what they say they are, short. The less words it takes to tell a story, the better.
