personal blog: simon

how one single missed call can spin then tear me to pieces. how little faith I have in myself to keep it together as I weigh the cons and pros examining the notification of that little ‘message left’ icon… and I dread what it can possibly be… what sort of urgency Jacob’s message can entail, so I flip the screen to the table. it’s best if I don’t see it. it’s best when I don’t look at it.

“hi.” Kevin shuffles still in his PJs into the kitchen. “no customers?” he looks at me with that surprise yet ‘glad that you’re here’ expression.

my morning was busier than usual for a Friday, but last minute pick-ups for someone’s birthday surprise party and invitations to a wedding, among other orders, happen on occasion. “lunch.” I murmur back to Kevin, who’s in my delayed response begun to fill the kettle with filtered water, as if tap water isn’t good enough.

“good noon.” another of Kevin’s wit, of what he thinks is clever, and leans to gently brush my lips with his.

my slight eye-roll, something Kevin has become accustom to, and I reply, “good noon,” giving in to Kevin’s humour.

“new sign?” his grimace gives away his hurt, but he manages to ask casually and with a smile. “are you really selling this place?”

“yes.”

“aw… so, where we’re moving?” teasing.

we? as if in him and I? not a settling thought.

“what paradise?” a joke but he can tell I’m not amused. “don’t look so sour,” he adds and reaches for the coffee.

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© simon whittle — second act