December 30, 2010 § Leave a comment
The carrier bags feel like wire across his fingers. He’s walked back from town, thought he could do with the exercise after the torpor of christmas, but now his knees are killing him and his fingers feel as if they might drop off.
He’d only gone down for some essentials – that was what he’d said to her. Asked if there was anything he should get, seeing as how he was popping down for some bread and a couple of cans of catfood. She gave him a list. He should have known better – she always gives him a list. This time there was soup, and biscuits, and things she said would be good for the lad, tucked up in bed with his flu.
The man’s not convinced it’s flu at all. Lad seems perfectly happy to prop himself up in bed, watching telly too loud and only quieting it to shout at them for more tea and lucozade. The man said once that he thought lucozade was for athletes, not people who did nowt, and honestly, you should have seen the look the woman shot him.
So he’s struggling up the hill with those bags full of cans and the fog is folding him in the sort of embrace he used to get from his wife.