14–eggs for dinner

Fern put the shopping bag down, carefully, and with only just a nudge, or two, of his feet from one side to the other he comfortably made his way around the kitchen easily, putting everything where he was before he tended to the other shopping bag and began to put everything away.

He packed away one by one, moving around the familiar space, which felt quite lonely, easily. Reaching for any shelf was not a chore to him, his height easily granted it.

Quite carefully he led another glass jar, which looked so small around his hand, upon the shelf without having to stand on his toes the way Theo often did. Perhaps, just maybe, the ghost of what was a smile attempted to climb onto his face but fell apart as he thought of the last time he had held her, the last time she had laughed, and how miserable he was without her laughter–he craved her.

Fern longed for his wife, far more than his pride sure wished to admit, and he yearned for the days where she would smile all his woes away, where she could shield him from the world and all that is often represented and was to him–he feared that what he had always dreaded was already gnawing away at their marriage.

He registered the silence around him with unfamiliarity, despite how the flat was unusually so when the other was present and the other absent, with him and the story and Theo attending her classes or at her part-time job, and yet, lately, it felt emptier. Perhaps, even beret of the light it usually carried and the joy he feared was beginning to slip from between them, to leave this unfamiliarity that made him worry, perhaps even far too much for his thoughts and it made him even more regretful. He regretted quite a lot, but one thing remained at the top of his head–the honeymoon. Fern regretted, dearly, having robbed his wife of a honeymoon, even if he thought little of the western custom, more than he had before, perhaps the humid weather and forests, of course, the sand and beach, would have done them better than this morbid flat which he felt was gradually suffocating all that had come with their union, which some had been skeptical of, and what he had sworn, wholeheartedly, he was to be to her and it was dying slowly, and quietly, right before his eyes.

Fern felt almost empty, perhaps even cold as if someone had ripped something from inside of him without, maybe, warning him or telling him just what it was, and had forgotten to return it, sadly.

Fern felt as if he was without her, as if she had fallen distant and him a stranger to her eyes, the happiness that was once there, deep within himself, was being replaced by dread which he was sure a newly married man wasn't meant to be feeling, they were only supposed to be cocooned in blissful glee and not this wary.

Fern yearned for joy, their joy and as it was, he yearned for it as he did a summer's day, where grey skies weren't staring down at the world with content and it wasn't so wet and bitter.

He dreamed of a happy place, yearning for it more than sleep, and he dreamt of Theo as if she were only intangible and as if needing her as he felt he did was only impossible–as if he could never have her as he once did. Especially the happy Theo he could only swear to only remember, the one whom he could swear was slowly dying right there, just as he feared his marriage was going to. Offering himself up in the kitchen then was somewhat an atonement, perhaps even an appeal for peace, an olive branch of some sort, and of course, one that his wife surely was entitled to since he felt he had been shitty as a husband lately.

The Polaroid pictures of the happy couple, which were plastered all over their living room wall, right across where he stood, were offered a frown again and then he went and busied himself, quietly, putting the food items where they were supposed to go. Then he left the ingredients he was to use and although he wasn't yet sure just what ‘dish’ he was to prepare or if he was even in the mood, to begin with. Surely, though, Theo was worth the trouble in his eyes and she always was, no matter what. He could only try, love was like that and so he was to take the initiative. It wasn't only a woman's duty to do so and he, a person raised by two uncles, surely knew better. Besides that, he was far better with pots and pans than Theo was and could do more than just boil an egg. The weather had been grey for most of a couple of days, the rain pouring rather sadly and with it taking his mood–perhaps when it stopped and it snowed it would get better. Perhaps he had no strength to face his pessimistic thoughts just as yet and of course, he had a wife to try harder for, which started with deciding what he was to prepare for dinner.

He sighed as he stared at the shiny pan which was so large to him and so empty, everything sort of felt so to him–empty and saddening. Everything was starting to seem far too dismal and uninteresting. Days were dragging on for far too long and the one person he yearned for seemed too far–a ghost. Her lovely light and warmth seemed to be something he couldn't reach anymore, despite trying hard she seemed to be resilient to his attempts and he felt beyond silly for even trying–humiliated. Theo was everything to Fern and so for his wife, he was willing to come last but some part of himself felt as though it hung its head and gave up on him. The rain continued to pour and left him so aware of the quiet flat. His thoughts felt too loud in his head as they beat about his brain miserably and for just a split moment in between deciding to make an omelet and chopping the vegetables a certain fear settled and left his stomach twisting uncomfortably, though he didn't wish to hold on to that one holding him hostage, he couldn't help himself and he was patrified of it–terrified of her possibily falling out of love with him. The spices tickled his nostrils familiarly as he forcefully gulped down dry air and then moistened his almost chirped lips, tiny beads of sweat forming against his forehead as the oil in the pain began to sizzle crispily, pulling him from his miserable thoughts and leaving him no choice as he carefully tossed the whisked eggs in the pan and began to prepare an omelet the only way he knew how–the way his mother had taught him to.

Fern only hoped she would see his efforts, he only hoped she wasn't mad at him still, or her stomach wasn't so upset either, and deep down, right at the bottom of his beating heart, he only hoped she still was madly in love with him to try.