WINDOW VIEWS - Regrets After Breakfast

They hadn't had a full blown argument for a while, though goodness knows last nights wasn't different in form or content to any they'd had previously. Vicious vitriol, intentionally coruscating and unforgiving. Whenever Fred had felt challenged by Donald over some perceived gross insensitivity, he was never defensive, or calmly explained himself, or ever ever acknowledged there might be some truth in it. He went straight onto the offensive and for the high moral jugular. Pointing out Donald's own failings in this or that area, which were ten times worse than his of course. Didn't know how he put up with it, or with him. By this morning over breakfast, both of them were hardly brain focused enough even to remember the specifics of last nights kick off, let alone resume the argument again. A bit frazzled, too delicate even, from the turbid mix of drink and lack of sleep. Their interactions over breakfast were a bit huffy, though there was no opportunistic rudeness, which was unusual. 

This difference in tone began to prey on Fred's conscience from the moment his husband of twenty plus years had left for work. Donald, had had an air about him of sadness and hurt. He was sure there was something he'd wanted to express, but couldn't quite bring himself to say it. The words, 'See ya later' being lightly tossed into the air as he left. Fred believed he was supposed to infer a whole lot more significance into them. More than the bare words alone were capable of communicating. There was love there, stirred with soured melancholy. Everything just felt off. And now Fred was alone at home all day, doing household chores, planning the weekly food shop for later. Busily distracting his emotions from eating him up from the inside with his guilt. The moment he stopped being active, everything returned - what he'd said last night - Donald's departure this morning. They loomed over him like a demonic presence. Stood over the sink doing the breakfast washing up, he paused to pensively gaze out of the kitchen window. Something was wrong, really wrong. No  this wasn't Fred's usual insecurity and paranoia speaking. Donald was going to leave him, he was, wasn't he? 

He stared absent minded at the lawn sprinkler outside casually flicking water hither and thither. And in its regular twisting and reversals of direction he read the dynamic pattern of his relationship with Donald. They were both tired with how they were with each other, but too resigned to it, to do the hard work restoring the easy camaraderie they once had. Instead they continued their routine bound relationship, familiar, yet stoically buttressed. Until frustrations erupted via an argument yet again. Donald's look this morning spoke volumes on how weighed down with weariness he was. Fred dwelled on things heavily, often for far too long. Regretfully and unproductively Donald would usually remonstrate. So for the umpteenth time that day he found himself keening in his mind, blankly looking through that damned kitchen window. It was now four thirty, and holding his desperation at bay, he hoped to goodness he'd see Donald driving into the Close soon. The sound of the kitchen clock ticking bore down loudly on his hearing. Internally struggling to put a kind appreciative sentence together with which to greet his husband, the moment he arrived. He settled once again on - Sorry - just sorry. - Yeh - and a prolonged hug - that was usually enough.