Earl Grey

Washing his teacup would have to wait. For now, he needed to get in his car. No appointment or destination. He just needed to get away, to keep the tears from coming back. Somewhere he’d never been with his wife, somewhere that wouldn’t remind him, the way the kitchen always reminded him, especially while sipping tea, even if Earl Grey wasn’t her favourite. He had to go, and so he drove, turning down side streets almost at random, without thinking about it, this way and that until he arrived at the cemetery, her cemetery, the maples almost leafless. He sat in his car a moment, his fingers tight on the steering wheel, then looser. In a few steps he was at her grave, a depression in the grass, still without a headstone.

circling angelfish . . .

a voice says

the doctor will see you now