It was a cloudy autumn’s morning when he called. She left the phone ringing, expecting the noise to die out soon. I don’t need to deal with this now she said; her tone dead, her eyes tired. She slipped into her dressing gown and walked out the bedroom.
Downstairs, she started opening up the cabinets, scouting for something to eat. Everything looked bland or too tedious to even prepare, so she settled for the leftover pasta in the fridge. Heated it up for 5 minutes, while thinking about what he said last night.
So she ate. Each bite with a taste of pepper and herbs smothering the otherwise plain carbohydrate. Saturday was always her special treat day, the only time she felt like cooking up a fresh hearty dish for herself but then, given the late rise and the scrambling sentiments in her head, today was not a day for comfort. Heavy thoughts enshrouded her peace, letting her waste her feast. The pasta was left unfinished. The phone kept ringing. And she ran up, only to find a string of messages waiting.