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Sunday 19 July 2015

Monday Memories

I don't remember writing this piece - I don't remember the brief, or when I wrote it or anything. I think perhaps I was trying for a little Daphne du Maurier flavor :-)

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I walked, creeping almost, up to the door and knocked so timidly that the moment after, I knew no one would have heard and I knocked once again, louder. I thought then that if anyone had heard the first attempt they'd think me most impatient, so I took a step back to make it look like I had all the time in the world. And so it was that the door was opened while I was half-turned away and my attempt to look casual gave instead the impression of storming off without waiting. My snap-back to face the door further dispelled any impression there lingering of calm (if indeed there had ever been any) and in my mind I told myself to breathe.

So we strangers took quick stock of each other and thus our impressions were formed. He asked me if he could help at which point I asked if he had a spare room in which I could sleep. My impression must have been favorable because after a quick glance and my (disheveled) attire he stepped back and let me through.

The initial enquiry aside, my anxiety did not much abate as I was now confronted with a whole new set of dangers. The door shut behind me with a thud and before I knew it a decision had been made. We discussed our arrangements and upon hearing of my ability in the area of culinary (which progressed from average to excessing in the course of our conversation) the deal was struck and I would cook and he would supply me with a bed. 

No luggage to stow, I followed the man into the kitchen, and it being four o'clock, began preparations for dinner.

The kitchen yielded no surprises as far as a bachelor (or at least a single man, for I had discarded the notion of single father: the house had none of the energy of children within it, but he may still yet prove to be a widower or divorcee) goes. So, I set to cleaning straight away. Anyone can clean who has a mind to, and I didn't have anywhere else to be, so I had a mind to.

A quick inventory of supplies told me that there would be enough for a few meals, but I put together a list so as to be prepared should I stay more than a couple of days. And then I set about preparing dinner. 

With dinner in the last stages, I set the table and then set off to find my host. Having found him, I mentioned dinner was ready and he complained at the early hour. I replied that he had not indicated any preference for time and if he wished to eat later, he would eat his dinner cold.

I returned to the table and sat down to eat. A short while later he came to the table and stopped at the sight of me. He started to say something, stopped - perhaps thinking better of it - and then walked through to the kitchen. My ears, untrained in the noises of this house, could still track his movements through the kitchen: plates and cutlery. I wondered if perhaps his invitation to cook for him had not included one to dine with him. I was just getting up to leave and let him dine alone when he came back through carrying a candle stick in one hand and a plate and cutlery in the other. I sat back down and watched as he walked around the table and proceeded to set another place at the table. For whom? I wondered. And then, What will they eat? I watched as he lit the candle, righted the cutlery, walked over to his place at the table, and sat down to his now luke-warm dinner.

I asked no questions, and he offered no explanations. We exchanged the skeletons of our respective days' journeys, which brought us to the close of dinner. He got up and, as he did, started clearing the table. I took my plate and as he started in the direction of the kitchen, I blew out the candle.

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