Sylvie set her kettle on the stovetop to boil, just like she had done every morning for the past fifty-two years. She bustled to the refrigerator and extracted two eggs from it. She retrieved a tomato from the counter and selected some spices. Sylvie returned to the stove and proceeded to make herself an omelet, just like she did every Tuesday. She sat down to breakfast alone at her cozy two-person table, but she opened a volume of O' Henry to keep her company while she dined.
Sylvie yawned and set her kettle on the stovetop to boil, just like she did every morning. She popped a piece of bread in her toaster oven and set out the jam for when it was properly toasted. The oven dinged; Sylvie retrieved her toast and painstakingly spread the raspberry jam in a smooth, thin layer over the bread. She took her meal onto the back porch, as she always did on Wednesday, and settled herself in the swing. Sylvie quietly sipped her tea and watched the sun come sliding over the hills exactly as it had done for the past fifty-two years.
Sylvie set the kettle on to boil water for her tea. She whipped up a batch of pancakes and fried them on the griddle for herself. When her plate was full, she realized that there was still a large amount of batter left. Sylvie decided to cover it and put it in the fridge for later. Sylvie hated this part of Thursdays. After fifty-two years of just enough batter, she simply couldn't get used to there being far too much batter.
Sylvie boiled her pot of water and made her customary cup of tea. She prepared her usual Friday breakfast of oatmeal and a banana. She took her mug into the living room and set it on a coaster beside her armchair. Sylvie took out her crocheting as she had always done for fifty-two years, but her stitches seemed to keep undoing themselves. She gave up, wadded the yarn into a ball, and set it on the coffee table. The tea would have to be routine enough for today.
Sylvie made her kettle of hot water, but didn't make her traditional meal of waffles and bacon. It was the first time in fifty-one years that she hadn't made Saturday morning waffles. The mug sat near her hand, but it was stone cold before even half of it was consumed. She dumped the rest down the drain and got ready to do her grocery shopping as she always did on Saturday.
Sylvie rose early on Sunday to get ready for church, as she had done every week for all seventy-three years of her life. She put the kettle on the stove out of habit, but she didn't even bother to turn the burner on. When she got home after Sunday luncheon with the Golden Agers, Sylvie emptied and washed up the kettle. She dried it meticulously and put it back in its place. It would be ready for the next day, as always.
Sylvie did not heat her kettle of water the next day. She was still in bed long after her normal waking time. Monday was the day she and he had gone together to the farmers' market and had bought fresh fruit there for their breakfast. It had been their routine every week for fifty-two years.
Sylvie didn't think that that tradition would help her cope like she had hoped the others would.