Short Story: Sunday Morning

Short Story: Sunday Morning

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

He was lying on his back on the sun stroked floorboards that raised a scent of beeswax and dust every time he moved. The girl beside him remained motionless, tangled up in the sheet covering her. He sat up to light a cigarette, the first of the day; stood and walked to the window. Church bells were ringing the faithful to Mass. He shifted weight onto one leg, scratching lazily. He had a notion that something was happening today, but couldn’t remember what.

Staring back at the prone figure he wondered about rousing her. He wanted her gone, but maybe she’d come awake with an overwhelming desire, or questions he didn’t want to answer. He thought instead of going out to the coffee shop. This time of day no one he knew would be about, and he could sit on his own and scratch and read a paper without interruption. Perhaps then his head would be in gear. He hated waking with strangers; hated also being alone.

The street was quiet; a boy on a scooter flashed by carrying a girl with flaring skirts sitting side saddle on the back. A cat with one eye sat in half shadow surveying his approach as he stepped lively to the news vendor on the corner, dropping coins without meeting the man’s eye. The café was filled with the sound of a radio playing yesterday’s hits; he sank into a booth as the owner’s wife dropped an expresso on the table before him. Thankfully she wasn’t looking for conversation.

He read the sports pages in silence, scanned the front, turned to the cartoons and drank his coffee in one swift draught. Two men came in he recognised, and he raised a reluctant hand in greeting. They sat on the far side of the room as he signalled the owner’s wife for a refill, requesting something to eat. She placed a grilled platter before him and he ate without needing to ask what it contained.

The woman was gone when he returned to his room; gathering the sheets and pillows off the floor he flung them into a corner, turning to the masterpiece. It eluded him this one, shifting shape as he worked, to the extent he thought he might abandon it altogether. The woman had left a note scrawled in Prussian Blue paint; he read it briefly before screwing it into a ball, and dropping it onto the floor.

It was this room he felt certain was making work difficult; a borrowed room, in a far-away town where he knew few people. He shouldn’t be there. Sunday morning; he felt like going for a walk into the hills, but knew it was where courting couples were likely to be found. He had no desire to stumble unannounced on anything. He was through with ruining lives; it was partially why he’d come away. Did anyone know he was running from conflict? It wasn’t like him to avoid a fight, but he’d had enough. This way the woman he’d abandoned could take whatever she wanted and by the time he returned, she’d be gone and it would be over. A clean break.

He stood before the painting a long time, lighting a cigarette when he’d promised to give it up. Such are the promises a man makes in the heat of need. He stared out the window at the roofs of houses concealing lives he’d never know, wondering if compromise is the product of heaven or hell. Scratching his head he poured a Scotch, sinking it quickly to pour another. Picking up the note off the floor; what was the woman’s name? She wanted him to call, and had left a number. Maybe he’d ring after two or three hours. He didn’t want a relationship again, not that soon. She’d dazzled him the night before after a couple of drinks and he’d succumbed. Flattery got him by the balls. He smiled, there was no advantage in denying the pleasure he found in casual sex. It fuelled his life force.

He stood before the painting again, and started to work. Strange, the connections required before the artist comes to terms with his masterpiece. Laughing, he allowed the sun to stroke his skin. It felt good to be alive, and even better to be free. He picked up the brush and laid in a line; one line meant he had to continue. He laid in another, using his thumb to smooth the edge. Now he was working; now the form was taking shape. He wiped the paint with a rag. It was the eyes; why couldn’t he get the eyes right? He squeezed out Burnt Umber, mixing it with black. Were those the eyes? He stared at the canvas a long time before committing the brush, and then stood back. Yes, it was her. He smiled, allowing the sun to stroke his flesh again.

Picking up the note the woman had left he dialled the number; it rang a long time before a sleepy voice answered.

© Desmond Kelly 8-9/4/2012