Sweet Potatoes

A dreary day of inertia; the characteristic restlessness felt when a loved one is driving for hours and hours. The Egyptian had left on a business trip.

As promised, he called before he left. The Egyptian hurtled toward Ottawa. I wondered how many promises he would have to fulfil before I believed in promises. Surely he has already filled hundreds. A fine muddle, to receive the punishment for the devastation brought before him.

I did not go out to buy the tulips – their bright countenance would spoil the melancholy spell cast over my apartment. I read and read. Napped and read. I finished reading the book that Eric told me about. Eventually, I cooked the sweet potatoes, the chicken. I made the salad we hadn’t made last night when instead we’d gone out for Thai. The old cat roused himself for some scraps, pretended to comfort by coercing me to scratch his cheeks.

Paul Manning had been right. I’d never make it in London.

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