Patience

The sun doesn’t wake her, not anymore, only the aftereffects of sunrise. It seeps through the steadfast brick wall she has thrust herself against in the varieties of dreams; reddening her cheek and waking her slowly. She hoists herself out of bed, over the rubble dirty laundry creates. She raises one hand to ruffle her hair awake whilst the other grabs a shirt; just something to wear for breakfast. Nothing fancy, just something. She doesn't look at the clock and she only realizes this in absentia, halfway to the kitchen.

---

He's alone in the kitchen, resplendent in yesterday’s rugby jersey and maybe clean boxer shorts. The outfit for frying: bacon, eggs, tomatoes. He’s only cooking for two. Last month she ate tangerines, a box a week for breakfast. He cut them in half every morning, if only to watch juice collect at the corners of her mouth. He sees her come in, peripherals focused on her as she slips the coffee on. She brushes by him and he misreads; his mouth clumsy against her warm cheek. They avoid the topic.

"No toast?"

He puts the bacon on the table.

"You can...”

He spreads his hands across the countertop, the fry pan spitting at him. Her too big t-shirt, her eyebrow cocked.

“I'll get it."

She fills the small milk jug, places it on the table and collects the sugar shaker to herself; minute details of her favorite coffee. The butter’s out. They eat, buttered toast topped with tomatoes strewn across her plate. He wonders if bacon and eggs are too blasé but she doesn’t notice, sipping her coffee as she raises her knee to a comfortable position against chipped table. He’s forgotten the paper. As he cleans, she reads the weekly news summed up in the Sunday paper; her glasses perched, intent. He sees the sun grow in the mid morning sky, the streaks of distant cloud pale, framed by the kitchen window. He knows the forecast before she pipes up from the table.

“Mmm, meant to be warm. 30 odd. Pull out the pool?”

He drops the sponge in the sink, finished with clearing spittles of grease from the stove and looks at the calendar. The days are all crossed off. It still has the picture for September, fading now, but still a recognizable budgie.

“Not yet,” He can feel her pout. “What about next weekend?”

She’s lost in the paper again, murmuring. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Rent’s due.”

She doesn’t respond and he goes to shower, looking forward to comforting cold tiles.

---

The slight shade of the trees above the hay bales does little but it’s enough for now, dry wading pool lopsided next to the tree is burning to touch. Rubber unrelenting, it’s barely summer and his mind feels bizarrely empty, somehow in tune with the languid heat. He welcomes the vague hole his mind has opened up. It’s a welcome change.

She’s tired but can’t remember why exactly, the dreams of the previous night lost but seemingly unimportant. She’s fairly sure she got some sleep. She wouldn’t have awoken like that unless there was a dream of some sort. She itches her foot, hoping it was the good sort and remembers Rent’s due. She wonders if he remembered but he has, she knows somewhere in the back of her head. He remembers.

"I'd make a good sniper." slips out of his cracked lips as he plays idly with the dry straw of his perch, the countryside baking behind him. She cocks her head at him from her lazy spot on the top of the bales, her hand reaching up to swipe sweaty tendrils away from her neck.

"Cause I've got patience." he explains, arm reaching down to bend the wire that binds the straw together. He feels the slight heat from the small scrap of metal but it feels good in his hands.

She counters back, slow as molasses. “You need more than patience.” Her shoulders scratchy with straw, eyes closed to the glare of the summer sun.

He looks at the sky. “"A least I've got that."

She squints at the sun as he waits for a response. Her full blown vacant facial expression says it all and he can’t be bothered to hear it.

"Yeah. I guess you do."