
Loneliness
A sterile hotel room. He sighs, shaking the metaphorical dust of the road from his clothes.
The room smells of the unknown. Not bad, more the unfamiliar taint of faint and tangled scents from a mixture of past and passing-through people. Without looking, he knows where the bed is, where the table is and where the shower is. He sets the kettle to boil and walks to the window.
Outside, there is a flat roof. It is littered with puddles and discarded junk thrown from the windows. Beyond the flat roof is the car park. A metallic pallette of identical cars creates a mechanical desert in front of him. Beyond the car park is the hungry road that feeds visitors to the hotel and filling station, the burger place and the pub.
The kettle clicks as it boils; an impatient tut that demands attention. After a short struggle, he gets a tea bag out of the little envelope and into the mug. He pours the water in. It is no longer boiling but he knows the milk will spoil the taste of the tea anyway. He stirs as the tea-bag is worked hard in the hope it will release some flavour. The colour in the cup is murky rather than rich.
When he judges that it is good as it’s going to get, he takes the tea back to the unforgiving chair by the desk. Suddenly, all is quiet. Too quiet and the familiar loneliness kicks in. Deep inside him, a six year old is crying. He still feels exposed, lonely, wary and suspicious. It is as though he has been forgotten and cast adrift in the world.
His phone rings.
The screen flares with delightful light which tells him that home is phoning. There is a surge of joy. He is remembered. He is wanted. His trembling, exhilarated fingers snatch and poke. As he answers, he hopes the love in his heart reaches across the miles through his few words of greeting .
For an agonising moment, there is silence. His heart measures the empty seconds and each beat anticipates a much needed response.
Then he hears the words.
“The toilet’s blocked, Tom. What should I do?”
