Radio Talks

A man sits at home and contemplates his morning tea. (Inspired by various Modernist writers)

Before I heard the news, I was at home, nursing my morning tea. Vanilla green, with a touch of milk. Warm, not scalding. Blank. Watered down. A normal cup of tea. An average on. Better than coffee.

A lesser of two evils.

My fingers tightened as the warmth expanded beyond the ceramic mug containing it. If the heat was leaving, then the tea must be cooling. Better to finish it before it turned sluggish. Before the water abandons the leaves in a pile of sludge at the bottom of the cup.

Lift.

Tip.

Swallow.

Breath.

The radio played yet another subpar ad in a long tradition of equally subpar ads. Jokes felt flat. Jingles jarred. Voices too silent, effects too loud, timing too slow. Droning drivel meant to attract your foggy morning attention.

. . . The mall may be under renovation, but you can still expect the same great service! . . .

Swallow.

A ripe apple fell from the tree out back.

Breath.

I considered heading out for a walk. A stroll. Catch some fresh air. Leave the daily crossword for later. Head to the café. Buy some tea.

Nurse it.

Finish their crossword.

Look out their windows.

Watch cars idle as opposed to apples tumble.

Swallow.

Breath.

. . . A head on collision . . .

The tea was getting cold.

. . . causing traffic problems coming into town from . . .

There no bagels to be found in the cupboard. They were supposed to be delivered later this afternoon. I checked anyway.

No bagels.

I grabbed the crackers instead. Dipped them in the cold tea. Watches apples fall.

The sky was a curious blue-grey. Flat. Clouds with no discernible shapes or borders. Hinting at the possibility of rain later in the week. Thursday, perhaps.

Thursday seemed a very proper day for rain.

It would add that final note to the week, a splash of emphasis, without ruining that hopeful sense a Friday brought.

Promising everything and returning nothing.

The great politician in all our lives.

. . . four injured, one confirmed dead . . .

A knock at the door.

A salesman, to be sure. People do not come to my door. There is nothing to attract them. No events, parties, promises of a scintillating conversation. I do not invite people. People do not drop by.

An apple, another, falls to the ground.

A knock at the door.

. . . Emergency vehicles at the scene . . .

I answer the door. The man is dressed in black. A clothe badge faded on his breast. A cap held to his chest.

He asks if this is the residence of one Mr. Adam. He asks my name. He waits for my reply.

Tip.

Swallow.

I inform him that he is in fact at the proper address. There follows a minute of fidgeting, of preamble, of nothing.

A car idles past.

I am told of a horrible accident. A traffic collision. A late echo of the radio. He pauses again. My wife, he informs me, has died. He offers condolences. Apologies. Help.

I close the door.

Lift.

A knock at the door.

Tip.

Sip.

The tea is cold.

I hear the policeman walking back to his car.

Breath.

. . . and now, for another ten minutes of today’s best music! . . .

I consider heading to the café.

An apple falls from the tree.