Cold Soup And Yellow Roses
She hates the room. The pale white walls with the dirty yellow beads. The insufferable green of the linoleum floor and the mistimed bright colour of the drapes.
She hates the smell, clean and sterile. This acrid smell of cleaning agents and pharmaceuticals which doesn't really manage to cover the real smells behind, smells of illness and sweat, greasy food, blood and shit.
Moreover, she hates the noises. Slurping steps on the corridor, silent moans and stertorousnesses, the beeping of the machines.
She hates it guts.
Another thing she hates is death. His presence, almost touchable through the prevailing cacophony. Sometimes she has the feeling he's sitting opposite of her, touching her husband's right hand, just like she touches his left. She almost can see him. But, of course, it's only her imagination, shadows on the walls.
There's only one thing she hates more than all of this. She hates him and his weakness with every piece of her body and soul. She hates her own inability to end the waiting. The time he takes to die.
Sometimes there's the urgent need to take one of the pillows and press it against his pale face. To end it. To free him as well as herself. But she's too weak. Another thing which ought to be hated.
"How late is it?", he asks. His voice still sounds firm, he wants it to.
"Never too late", she answers with a smile. "To keep a promise."
"I'm too tired to fight."
"I wasn't intending to fight."
"I wasn't intending to die."
She looks at her watch. "It's half past five", she answers. "Tea-time. Do you want some tea, Richard?"
"I'm not thirsty."
"I'll get you some nevertheless. Just in case."
"But you promised!", she exclaims. "In good and in bad times and all that stuff. You even promised it twice."
"So what!?! Your father promised me so many things, dozens of promises and he broke most of them. Nobody can deny me the right to break one single promise then!"
"In good and in bad times, until-", Lorelai stops. "You promised that", she adds with emphasis.
"And he promised to retire 15 years ago. He promised me a journey round the world and a house at Cape Cod."
"This is different Mom and you know it."
"He promised me to travel to Europe next summer. He promised me we eventually would watch Medea in Athens. He promised we'd travel to Moscow and Jasnaja Poljana."
"Dad wants to go home. He needs to be home", she stays stubborn. "He needs you."
Needs. Wants. Nobody asks her about her needs and wants. Still she nods. "Alright", she agrees tired. "Alright", she repeats. She doesn't want him to be home though.
He caresses her face. He does it often lately. Drawing the lines, exploring it. Maybe he wants to commit it and take the memory with him. If there's any place he's going to. It's hard for her to believe there is. Yet she wants there to be more than a black nothing. She wants his embrace to wait for her one day. His fingers ready to run over her face like they do now.
He stops. A slow wink and a look. Then he turns away from her and closes his eyes. He cries.
Emily reaches out to touch his back. "I'll check if dinner is ready", she stops and gets up, leaving the room then. Scared. Frightened.
Of course dinner isn't ready. The maid hasn't even started to cut the vegetables. She fires her and orders some chicken soup. It'll agree better with Richard anyways.
It took ages to deliver the soup and waiting in the entrance hall she had started to wonder if they had to catch, kill and pluck the chicken before they'd been able to make the ordered soup.
It smells good at least. She gives the delivery boy an ample tip and carries the hot liquid to the kitchen to pour it in a tureen along with some iced soda. She puts the china on a tray. After she'd added a spoon, some white bread and a napkin, there's still something missing. She can't serve a dinner which lacks something. It has to be perfect after all. There's no place or time for faults, every dinner could be the last one.
Flowers, she thinks, some colour is missing. Some life to be served with the dead chicken.
Therefore, she heads to the garden. She wanders through it, unable to decide which flower to pick. His favourite. Does he have one? Over 50 years of marriage, she knows his sizes, his soft spots, how he prefers to drink his Martini, but not his favourite flower.
Eventually she cuts a yellow rose. The soup is cold by now, some minutes in the microwave and the perfect dinner is ready to be served. No more excuses to return to the bedroom.
She doesn't want to get drunk. Well, she wants to, but not at the price of seeing everything through the mist of drunkenness. Time is too rare to waste it like this.
Still, a little nip, only a tiny one. Big enough to make her smile without having to force it. Small enough to keep control.
She ends up having one and a half glasses of wine. Probably a nip too much, she realizes, slowly taking the stairs as the alcohol makes her a bit dizzy. She should have eaten some of the soup. It really smelled good.
Richard is still asleep. Good. Enough time to have a shower and get sober again.
It's warm. The morning sun is. "Richard?", she whispers, reaching out for his face. Cold. "Just five more minutes", she continues to talk. "No?", a pause. "What about one? Just one. I might allow you to smoke a cigar in here", she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a second. "This is your only chance", she explains. "You better take it as I'll never allow you to smoke in our bedroom again."
With that she remains silent, lying for another five minutes next to him until she finds the energy to get up. The morning sun shines godawful bright.
Fin
ATN: Thanks to Mel for encouraging me to post this Oneshot. I don't know if you want a city, but if Amy can get one for Kelly, I sure can get one for you.