Loneliness
By
Aquinas T. Duffy

She lit the gas. The blue flame gave out a soothing warm heat. The kettle was placed on it. It had been seven years since her husband died. She used to prepare his tea at six o' clock. He would sneak in, kiss her and smile and she would listen happily to his daily news. The kettle was boiling. She used to love to pour out his tea, while he was talking to her. The world had always been outside. They had been one; united body and soul. It had smashed.

The cup broke. The noise frightened her. Each piece spread in different directions. She had forgiven her son. He promised that it would never happen again. He had promised that he would never leave her, "All sons say the same thing," she thought.

She picked up the pieces and put them in the old box. She poured out the tea for herself and himself. Three lumps of sugar were put into his cup; he always had a sweet tooth. "How was your day at work ?" There was no answer. She stared at the empty chair and the steaming cup of tea. She cried. The noise of the cars outside seemed to shake the house. The people walked up and down the path, in and out of the city. Two women met each other again after five years. There was so much to talk about, with the daughter being married and the change in the weather.

His tea was cold now. "You never drink your tea, Joe, do you ?" There was no answer. She emptied it out and turned around. She stared. The tea had been made for him, yet he did not drink it. He had always taken his tea at six o clock. There was an empty chair and a plate of sandwiches on the table. He seemed to smile. She touched him. It was only the cold chair. She cried. "I have to collect my pension tomorrow," she said with a smile. "I hope that Sheila will be there, because she promised me a ball of wool." The cups were put in the cupboard. She turned off the gas.