by C.L Eyles
take Earl away. He’d been prepared to fight, he’d toughed it out, and he’d gotten there in the end.
Just like the days on the Travelling Stock Route.
“You know this isn’t exactly the way I pictured standing next to you in a wedding suit, Earl.” Frank mutters as he works his fingers along the front of his dress shirt, and then slips on his waistcoat. He looks around the room at the myriad of boxes that line the walls of the room, each one stamped with the same motif, imagines he can still smell the aroma of freshly blended tea leaves, and spices, if only he concentrates hard enough. And then Frank’s gaze falls on the silver teapot, the two cups set out either side on the kitchen table, one already poured, the other empty. Force of habit, he’d set the table for two, just like he had every other morning they’d lived there. Frank feels his face crumple, two rivulets of wetness running down his cheeks, the damp taste of saltiness reaches his lips. And still he can’t tear himself away from that image. The empty tea cup, the lifetime of memories summed up in that one, small object.
“Cup of tea, Earl?”
“Lovely, thanks Frank.”