Greyhound for Breakfast

A Sunday evening

She was annoyed with him; she couldnt say exactly why she was annoyed with him but she was. She watched him as he leaned back on the couch, his head resting against its back, his legs stretching out towards the fireplace. Then she shook her head and returned to the kitchen to see if the water was boiling. It wasnt, and she walked to the window and stared out. Night. A month ago it would’ve been day. What had happened to the summer. The sound of the water approaching boiling point. She checked the tealeaves were in the teapot. And voices from the front room; he had switched on the wireless. The sandwiches. Quickly she got the margarine and the cheese from the refrigerator, the bread from the bread bin, seeing the amount of crumbs inside — she should’ve cleaned it out. She buttered the bread and she sliced the cheese, but not uniformly, each slice being totally different from the one previous; thick ends and thin ends, and one slice so thin it became nothing at all. She juggled them onto the bread, trying to capture an even thickness on his. Lettuce in the bowl. But she left it there, and it would have needed a wash under the tap. When she had filled the teapot she returned to the window. There were no sounds from outside, not even from animals. Animals. Dogs or cats. A Sunday evening; there wouldnt be any drunks, just silence and maybe a car. Normally she enjoyed the silence of being on the top flat; and the silence of late summer evenings was best; during winter and late autumn she preferred noise. Why was that. But if it was anything it was nothing worth bothering about. The refrigerator vibrated and cut off suddenly. It would reach a peak then cut off suddenly, only noticeable that instant prior to cutting off. It had to do with thermostatic control, a thing which worked on its own, as part of the machinery. The tea wouldnt have infused properly yet, she got a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer and stirred it, and poured it into the mugs. The sandwiches were on a plate and she carried it and his mug of tea ben the front room. He was gazing at the picture on the wall above the mantelpiece, listening or not listening to the wireless. A discussion. All those in favour and all those against. The chairman or presenter of the programme was chuckling about something — a moot point. A moot point. What was a moot point. Did moot mean appropriate. An appropriate point. She passed him the mug and placed the plate on the small table between the couch and the chair she usually sat on, then returned to the kitchen. She would have liked to pause here, by the window, sipping her tea. There could be something, a sound perhaps, a thing of interest, thing of marked interest, something to give cause for thought. What thing could it be. A sound perhaps. She would know it, the sound, as soon as she heard it. But the thought would not be worth bothering about. Not unless the sound it derived from was especially striking. If it was especially striking, totally unfamiliar. Not to the point of uniqueness for that really wasnt possible. Just a strange sound, a strange noise; something to set the hairs on end. What could that be. A sudden scream. Murder being committed — violence, in the home. The sound of violence erupting, below, in the flat downstairs. She raised the mug to her lips, and sipped; the tea without milk or sugar. She preferred it this way although he preferred milk, but no sugar either, he preferred it with milk and no sugar. She should be going to the front room. If she didnt go soon he might be wondering what was up. Unless he didnt notice. He would notice. She sipped her tea. He just wouldnt find it something to be really wondering about. She would be in the bathroom or something, something else, something straightforward. She was walking to the door, and she switched out the light, then entering the front room and shutting the door after her, and walking to the chair she sat on. He had eaten his sandwich and this left hers on the plate. She would lift it and eat it. She continued to sip tea from her mug. From the wireless an outbreak of applause, for one of the speakers; and the chairman laughed and asked a question which followed on from the point made by the last speaker. She glanced to see that he really was listening, and intently — staring at the fireplace, his look somehow quite lively, not a stare, just a look, looking directly to the fireplace to have his eyes open for the purpose of attention, concentration on the speakers; perhaps had he closed his eyes his attention would wander, he might doze off. He was reaching for the plate, as though about to eat the sandwich but he paused and he glanced at her; he was drawing her attention to it, indicating it, the sandwich, that it was still there. Why was it still there? What was the meaning of that? Why was she not eating her sandwich instead of just sitting there sipping tea? Maybe she didnt want it and this was why it was lying there. Unless it was for him. Maybe she had made him two. She wasnt feeling like eating, or perhaps she ate hers in the kitchen, before coming through to sit down. Why should she have done that? Absent-minded maybe. She had made the one sandwich then started eating it while doing the next, and had finished it; so she’d had to make herself another one just in case. Just in case. In case of what. In case he thought something. What could he have thought. He could’ve thought why has she made me one and not made one for herself. Why did she eat that one and not this one. Daft, but the kind of thing people ended up thinking when something like that happened — a simple event, the eating or not eating of a sandwich. The speaker on the wireless programme was laughing. Why was he laughing. Because he was getting paid a lot of money. This is why people on the wireless laughed, they were getting paid lots of money. He glanced at her. She wasnt listening to the programme anyway, she never bothered. She found programmes like this one unbelievable. And although she never said so she was probably always wondering why he did listen, why he did listen. What was the point in it, of listening to them. They were always unsatisfactory. Nothing was ever said on them that could be taken down and used in evidence because they never gave anything away, nothing; always it got lost amid the general air of smugness, underlined by the way the presenter was laughing all the time. What was he laughing about. Because they were all in it together and getting paid lots and lots of money. Everything went in circles. And she could just sit there, not taking part, her mind gone, abstracted miles away — a voyage to unknown parts; only brought back to reality by the occasional sips from her mug of tea. She had probably just forgotten about the sandwich. And if he reminded her about it, what would she do. She could smile, she could smile and lift it right away. But she wouldnt. She was a bit annoyed at him. She wouldnt smile therefore. Unless she was so far away that she would’ve forgotten all about it. He glanced at her briefly, she was staring at the fireplace.