Post by endlessharmony on Nov 5, 2005 18:21:29 GMT -6
Bing! Bing!
Coffee’s done, she thinks to herself as she slides gracefully out of the depths of her cold wooden chair. Her reflexes overcome her as she places her dainty old feet on the tile, jumping slightly from the shocking cold.
A sigh escapes her as she reaches her coffee pot, looking out the window. Two brilliant birds have caught her attention as they wind twigs and leaves into a dainty nest on a branch of her redwood. They twitter and flit about carelessly from twig to twig, leaf to leaf, enjoying the early morning calm.
What a nice life they live, though I have cared for their song.
She shuffles rigidly toward the cabinet, reaching for her fresh morning Drink Me coffee mug. Sliding the pot off the counter, the coffee streams into the mug, steaming and writhing as it settles in its new surroundings.
She puzzles herself as she lifts the burning mug into her hands. Never have understood why I use this same old cup every morning. That company worker, he seemed to enjoy it. Ah, yes. Donald. He always had a never-ending supply of these silly things.
Making her way back to the table, she pulls her old tattered robe closer to her body.
It’s cold out this morning. Wonder what the occasion is.
She pulls out the wooden chair again and places herself at the head of a long, intricate table set for six.
Nobody ever sits here, yet the table is always set. Rather silly of me, I should say. I can’t say I know why I even bought the old thing in the first place. Ah, yes. Now I remember. The salesman said it was such a beauty it would attract plenty of people to it. Ha!
The newspaper crinkles loudly as she opens to page six. Always page six. Never seven, nor eight, simply six.
Her eyes glance about the page, searching for an interesting piece of news. Nothing captures her eye. She turns calmly to the obituaries, taking a sip of her coffee.
Peter Towland. That seems to ring a bell. Oh, yes. He was that funny boy in grammar school. The one that traded me marbles for my delicious homemade sandwiches. ‘Died peacefully and succeeded by three wonderful daughters and two loving sons.’ Lucky fellow, he had many children.
She closes the newspaper and leans back in her chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. As she sits quietly, thinking to herself of the forlorn little table, there is a sudden knock on the door.
Could it be? Maybe it’s someone important, waiting to sweep me off my feet and take me far, far away. Maybe it’s someone coming to invite me to and important, exciting event. Or maybe they’ve come to tell me that I’m needed for something big. Something grand..
Excitedly, she jumps from her chair, making her way swiftly to the door. Thoughts race through her head as she gets closer and closer, wondering just who it might be. Yet, her thoughts diminish as she opens the door to see what is standing before her.
Ah, it’s just the milkman. But there’ll be something next time. Yes, there’s always a next time. Right?
Coffee’s done, she thinks to herself as she slides gracefully out of the depths of her cold wooden chair. Her reflexes overcome her as she places her dainty old feet on the tile, jumping slightly from the shocking cold.
A sigh escapes her as she reaches her coffee pot, looking out the window. Two brilliant birds have caught her attention as they wind twigs and leaves into a dainty nest on a branch of her redwood. They twitter and flit about carelessly from twig to twig, leaf to leaf, enjoying the early morning calm.
What a nice life they live, though I have cared for their song.
She shuffles rigidly toward the cabinet, reaching for her fresh morning Drink Me coffee mug. Sliding the pot off the counter, the coffee streams into the mug, steaming and writhing as it settles in its new surroundings.
She puzzles herself as she lifts the burning mug into her hands. Never have understood why I use this same old cup every morning. That company worker, he seemed to enjoy it. Ah, yes. Donald. He always had a never-ending supply of these silly things.
Making her way back to the table, she pulls her old tattered robe closer to her body.
It’s cold out this morning. Wonder what the occasion is.
She pulls out the wooden chair again and places herself at the head of a long, intricate table set for six.
Nobody ever sits here, yet the table is always set. Rather silly of me, I should say. I can’t say I know why I even bought the old thing in the first place. Ah, yes. Now I remember. The salesman said it was such a beauty it would attract plenty of people to it. Ha!
The newspaper crinkles loudly as she opens to page six. Always page six. Never seven, nor eight, simply six.
Her eyes glance about the page, searching for an interesting piece of news. Nothing captures her eye. She turns calmly to the obituaries, taking a sip of her coffee.
Peter Towland. That seems to ring a bell. Oh, yes. He was that funny boy in grammar school. The one that traded me marbles for my delicious homemade sandwiches. ‘Died peacefully and succeeded by three wonderful daughters and two loving sons.’ Lucky fellow, he had many children.
She closes the newspaper and leans back in her chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. As she sits quietly, thinking to herself of the forlorn little table, there is a sudden knock on the door.
Could it be? Maybe it’s someone important, waiting to sweep me off my feet and take me far, far away. Maybe it’s someone coming to invite me to and important, exciting event. Or maybe they’ve come to tell me that I’m needed for something big. Something grand..
Excitedly, she jumps from her chair, making her way swiftly to the door. Thoughts race through her head as she gets closer and closer, wondering just who it might be. Yet, her thoughts diminish as she opens the door to see what is standing before her.
Ah, it’s just the milkman. But there’ll be something next time. Yes, there’s always a next time. Right?
