Eloquent Divergence

Daily Grind - PT 2

The clouds hadn't lifted since early that morning.

Cider adjusted his grip on a bag as he looked up. He'd known it would stay overcast. He'd counted on it, actually. But guilt still seeped into the cracks as he walked back to the bus. He glanced down at the bags, the contents within. Spices, meat, broth, vegetables. A loaf of french bread. Fruit, crackers, a bottle of middle-priced wine. Not too bitter, not too sweet.

Cider felt an unease stir in his chest, twisting and knotting as the bus pulled up. As he climbed the steps. As he placed himself in the android area, though he no longer felt any demands or compulsion to go there.

The ride back to the house was uneventful, mundane. Interrupted only by the faint drizzle that had broken out for a short spell. Ten minutes at most, fading quickly as it had come. It had left the world smelling richer, Cider decided as he stepped off at his stop.

Mindful for puddles, Cider blinked at the weak sun peeking through the clouds in brilliant beams.

He felt his resolve return.

The gate opened and swung gently closed behind him. Home. A relief swept over Cider as he shed his coat, unlaced his boots, laces wet at the ends. He didn't like how that felt.

But he wouldn't let it sour his mood. Gathering groceries he began preparing the meal. Lynn's favorite rainy day dish.

It would take a while, he knew, to prepare dinner. Three hours at least, adding another hour for any mistakes. He'd need to begin cooking a little before one o'clock if he was to be done when Lynn arrived.

Heart seemed to want to hammer out of his chest as he arranged the food, put away the perishables. Fingers didn't shake, per se. More, they seemed to vibrate in nerves; anticipation.

But first thing was first.

Cider closed his eyes, inhaled.

Cleaning.

It wasn't difficult. He began in the kitchen, washing dishes, loading the dishwasher. Washing counters, cupboard knobs, cabinet fronts. Scrubbing down the stove he'd soon be dirtying again. Sweeping, mopping. As the floor dried he began laundry, folding the clothes from the last load yesterday in the living room.

Cider found a comfort in the monotony, in being needed. In the knowledge he was useful; used and using in return. The simple tasks gave him a sense of accomplishment and Lynn's visceral appreciation made every moment well worthwhile.

Cider settled on the couch, grabbing a garment without looking. Folding mechanically as he stared at the characters on the screen.

It had become routine to use the down time while folding as an opportunity to watch TV. To catch up on the life he'd forgotten. Missed out on. There was so much nuance that he didn't quite grasp, though Cider was sure exposure had helped by leaps.

And then to put the laundry away.

First Sarah's. He grabbed the pile, pushing into her room. She was a relatively clean person in general, her personality generally tightly reigned to match. Clothes tucked away in the closet Cider moved to unplug the fairy lights she'd left on. Taking a moment to, again, admire her Polaroids.

It seemed odd, such an old medium. Outdated, the quality of some of the photos were poor at best. Blurry, color flares.

Cider leaned in closer on one.

Sarah held an ice cream, dripping down her hand, eyes red from the flash, cheeks and nose flushed from sunburn. Bugs flying around lit up like fairies around her. She was so much younger. Her trademark earrings were missing, no pink gem hearts flashing from her lobes.