June 27, 2013 § 1 Comment

She takes a cherry scone, for him it’s a plain one.

It has been that way for thirty five years; their spot, the same day every week.

They face eachother, silent. His face looks out to the rest of the echoed shopping centre. Her eyes dart across the other tables, catching curls of conversations.

She bites into the cherry one aggressively, as he savours every buttered crumb.

Always the same.

Until one day he cleared his throat:

“Can I try some of yours?”

She cut him a corner and put it on to his plate with her fingers. After a few tense chews he shook his head.

“No, no, that’s not for me at all.”

They fell back into  their cosy silence, him happy that thirty five years of choosing plain hadn’t been a waste.



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