STOCKWELL
From this chair in the kitchen I can see golden light gushing through the expansive windows and undulating excitedly through almost empty bottles of wine and hurriedly glistening through a row of identical glasses before, suddenly, the merriment ends. On the opposite side of the room the result of this display is that bizarre shapes are projected onto the table, ugly and disjointed somehow. I’m not exactly sure where to look, so I stir the once-crispy flakes and chunks of preserved apple in my bowl, now limp and saturated. Breakfast used to be a time when the sound of oil crackling eggs in a pan and the heavenly smell of roasted beans filled the kitchen. I look up from the bowl and am met with that cold gaze of hers – the one that has frozen the joy, the promise of so many anniversaries, birthdays, Saturday evenings: penetrating light blue eyes with a background of marble, which today perfectly match her dressing gown. Initially, we would sit together at the table to eat our fried breakfasts; we would use the new toast rack, plates, cutlery set. Soon she stopped eating the eggs, preferring just some chilled juice or fruit - not that her healthy eating has been of any benefit.Her distant behaviour jars me more than ever, and her skin, washed out by the light, looks pale and rejected, its wrinkles a eulogy, an obituary to the passing of youth. I look at the work surfaces: the remains of a sandwich I made yesterday, the crumbs on the bread board and the browning lettuce lie a few feet away. I wouldn’t want you to think that this is my fault. I’m not sure
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