Stephen Page had a short story published on Flash Fiction North.
After
Sunday. I wake early and prepare our breakfast. I turn on the coffee machine, the water boiler for Teresa’s tea, lay out the plates, silverware, and glasses. I open the living room windows. It is hot again today. At least 80 degrees already and it is only 7 a.m. After I squeeze Teresa’s lemon juice, cover the glass with a napkin, and put her bread in the oven to make toast when she awakes, I pull the bacon and eggs out of the fridge and put a skillet on the stove. I sit and wait for her to wake to start our regular Sunday grease breakfast.
As we finish our food and beverages, I clean the dishes.
“Thank you, love,” Teresa says as she hugs me.
By now it is already 90 degrees outside. I close the windows and turn on the air conditioner.
“Too hot to go outside,” she mentions.
“Yes, probably.”
“Not much to do anyway, now, during this pandemic, the beaches will be full. Idiots. Too dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t feel like running errands.”
“Me either.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m lazy. Out of energy. This has been going on too long.”
I lie on the couch and read books. Teresa sits on the bed and plays ‘talk on the cellphone to friends’ for hours.
We lunch on low-salt turkey sandwiches, then nap in separate rooms.
By 6 p.m. it has cooled down a bit. We go for a walk around the tree-lined hilly neighborhood. We admire the spring flowers, the bees buzzing about them, the butterflies flapping, and we listen to the birds singing.
Stephen Page 