It started out like any other Sunday, a breakfast of ham and eggs in the big orange booth at the back of Dupar’s coffee shop. A nonthreatening kind of place; you can sit and read the Times, the coffee keeps coming, nobody cares. After 4 cups and the funnies finished, Bill looked over at Nan and said: “ I don’t want to see your parents today”.
Nan slowly put down her paper, looked up over glasses balanced on the tip of her nose and said defensively to the wide eyed blonde haired man, “How come. You have to work?”
“Nah, let’s do something different today. We always do the same thing”.
“Yeah, but honey, this is Sunday, the day we see mom and dad.”
Bill was bored and didn’t know how to fix it. He had one of those deadly nine to five jobs. Not much incentive to get out of bed other than having to put food on the table and pay the rent.
Bill and Nan had been together for 20 some years having been childhood sweethearts; never knowing any one other than each other in or out of bed. Bill usually let Nan run their social life and anything else that needed running. Nan, the competent one. He didn’t ask much of himself, Bill didn’t.
Dark haired, not exactly pretty but nice looking enough, Nan discovered writing and painting and along with two teen aged sons, lots of friends, had plenty pulling at her. Nan liked things in their place, a predictable life. Bill had deep -seated aspirations but poor self- direction and was starting to look around for someone else to hold the reins. He started looking for problems that love overlooks. Flaws. Two kids later, Nan had grown a little hippy and soft unlike their idyllic hard bodied school days. Her sweaters never set quite right on her shoulders, one side or the other continually slipping down showing a slip or bra strap, hair on the frizzy side.
A good place to start.
Unmarried Bertha, the new accountant, 2 cubicles down from Bill, sweet as pie. A snappy dresser, very trim and neat and blonde to boot. She kept up on current events and had a good sense of humor. So nice, in fact, he already had coffee with her at Dupar’s the other night when he told Nan he had to work late. Bill and Bertha needed to talk over a couple of work related issues they eventually got around to. They found they enjoyed each other immensely and had lots of dreams in common. They talked about places both wanted to visit and hopes. Things unmotivated people talked about but don’t do.
“I’m going to do something different, Nan, you go see your parents” Bill said.
“Okay, have it your way. You going to see your girlfriend or something?” a prophetic attempt at humor.
A long pause, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I am, “ he said, his heart pounding in his chest. Nan sat back hard against the orange plastic seat.
“Oh, really, huh? That supposed to be funny?” said paling Nan. Bill nervously played with his fork and spoon pushing the napkin this way and that. His confidence grew as he heard himself speak the truth. Frustrations spewed forth, waking from a dream. He knew he wanted out.
“Let’s go talk to someone, “ Nan said.
“No”.
Quiet Bill and his made up mind that orange Sunday at Dupar’s over breakfast and the Sunday funnies.
Dancer/choreographer turned painter/writer, Neila Mezynsk has fiction and poetry published and forthcoming on Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Kill Author, Dogzplot, Scrambler, Mud luscious among several others. Mezynski also writes art and music reviews for online and in print magazines.
Nan slowly put down her paper, looked up over glasses balanced on the tip of her nose and said defensively to the wide eyed blonde haired man, “How come. You have to work?”
“Nah, let’s do something different today. We always do the same thing”.
“Yeah, but honey, this is Sunday, the day we see mom and dad.”
Bill was bored and didn’t know how to fix it. He had one of those deadly nine to five jobs. Not much incentive to get out of bed other than having to put food on the table and pay the rent.
Bill and Nan had been together for 20 some years having been childhood sweethearts; never knowing any one other than each other in or out of bed. Bill usually let Nan run their social life and anything else that needed running. Nan, the competent one. He didn’t ask much of himself, Bill didn’t.
Dark haired, not exactly pretty but nice looking enough, Nan discovered writing and painting and along with two teen aged sons, lots of friends, had plenty pulling at her. Nan liked things in their place, a predictable life. Bill had deep -seated aspirations but poor self- direction and was starting to look around for someone else to hold the reins. He started looking for problems that love overlooks. Flaws. Two kids later, Nan had grown a little hippy and soft unlike their idyllic hard bodied school days. Her sweaters never set quite right on her shoulders, one side or the other continually slipping down showing a slip or bra strap, hair on the frizzy side.
A good place to start.
Unmarried Bertha, the new accountant, 2 cubicles down from Bill, sweet as pie. A snappy dresser, very trim and neat and blonde to boot. She kept up on current events and had a good sense of humor. So nice, in fact, he already had coffee with her at Dupar’s the other night when he told Nan he had to work late. Bill and Bertha needed to talk over a couple of work related issues they eventually got around to. They found they enjoyed each other immensely and had lots of dreams in common. They talked about places both wanted to visit and hopes. Things unmotivated people talked about but don’t do.
“I’m going to do something different, Nan, you go see your parents” Bill said.
“Okay, have it your way. You going to see your girlfriend or something?” a prophetic attempt at humor.
A long pause, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I am, “ he said, his heart pounding in his chest. Nan sat back hard against the orange plastic seat.
“Oh, really, huh? That supposed to be funny?” said paling Nan. Bill nervously played with his fork and spoon pushing the napkin this way and that. His confidence grew as he heard himself speak the truth. Frustrations spewed forth, waking from a dream. He knew he wanted out.
“Let’s go talk to someone, “ Nan said.
“No”.
Quiet Bill and his made up mind that orange Sunday at Dupar’s over breakfast and the Sunday funnies.
Dancer/choreographer turned painter/writer, Neila Mezynsk has fiction and poetry published and forthcoming on Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Kill Author, Dogzplot, Scrambler, Mud luscious among several others. Mezynski also writes art and music reviews for online and in print magazines.
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