#oneaday, Day 177: Sandwich

The familiar melody of the alarm on his phone sounded, waking him from his slumber suddenly. He had been having a dream of some description; it had felt enormously real at the time, but now, in the soft light of morning creeping through the crack in the curtains that she always used to hate, it was already dissipating. A cloud of memory, rising into the sky and disappearing.

He leaned over and grabbed his phone, squinting at the time through blurry vision. It felt too early. But it was a perfectly normal time to get up; quite late for some, even. It didn’t feel important to get up, though. He wanted to stay lying there, gazing at nothingness, contemplating all that had come to pass and all there was to come. But at the same time, he knew that would achieve nothing. He remembered simpler times, when lying in bed meant something different; a time when it meant closeness, comfort, intimacy. Now, what did it mean?

His phone chimed as a well-timed message from a friend broke his reverie and stirred his mind into action. He was grateful to her for that; she always knew the right time to say something, even if it was just “hello”. He quickly tapped out a message back to her and lay back down, closing his eyes for a moment, phone clutched in his hand.

It vibrated in his hand; a reply, and an admonishment that he should really get up rather than lying there feeling sorry for himself. Smiling weakly to himself, he did so, and staggered out of the bedroom into the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen.

The fridge was almost empty; it had been ever since that day. He’d only stocked up on the essentials as and when he needed them. There was little point doing anything elaborate for one. There was a pack of bacon, already open and wrapped in tin foil. He picked it up and walked over to the grill, flipping it on and laying the foil out on a tray. He carefully removed two rashers of bacon from the pack and washed its sliminess from his hands, then slid the tray under the rapidly-heating grill.

More memories popped into his head; unwelcome guests. Once, there would have been four rashers on that tray, and once the kettle would have been boiling ready to make a cup of tea, perfectly timed to be ready as the bacon finished. The radio would have been on, blaring out some sort of interminably awful pop music, and the room would have felt full of life. Now it felt like a shadow of its former self, like a graveyard. Spirits inhabited the room, but they’d never be coming back.

The smell of the gradually-grilling bacon wafted to his nostrils as he got out a plate and two slices of bread. He’d butter the bread for her and leave his plain. And when it was done, he’d carry them all back to the bedroom and climb back into bed, ready to eat the food, listen to something together and, after that, enjoy a moment or two of quiet intimacy.

If he did that now, though, there would just be that same awful silence. There was no reason to go back into that room now he was up; the shadows would just claim him if he did, and the day would be gone.

He pulled the tray out from under the grill and flipped the bacon quickly with his fingertips, cursing to himself at how hot it was. Then he slid it back under, that smell filling the whole room now. It was a smell that most people find comforting, whatever state they’re in; happy, sad, hungover, sober—there’s always room for a bacon sandwich. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it right now, as tied to these memories as it was. But he wasn’t about to let things he could do nothing about spoil his enjoyment of the best thing about the morning.

It was time. He pulled the tray out again and quickly transferred the bacon to the bread, cursing again at how hot it was. The rapidly-diminishing bottle of HP sauce was already upturned ready to spill its contents onto the sandwich, just as it should be.

And he closed the sandwich, walked into the living room and sat on the couch, staring at the switched-off TV. And thus began another day alone.