Death and Tea at Three

21 Harold and the Singing Competition

It was a Tuesday evening, and Harold was in a particularly antsy mood. The new episode of The Voice had already begun, and for whatever reason, Isobel had not arrived. They had, up until this point, watched every episode together.

The girl had many faults, which included, but were not limited to, the fact that she would put her feet up on the couch when she had just come from school. After all, schools were filthy, and to sully his furniture with that filth was repugnant.

Isobel also had the tendency to be easily excitable. Harold didn't care for excitable people. The way he saw it, you are born, you live, and then you die. There was no reason to be excited about anything. The end was inevitable for all, so everyone might as well settle down.

The longer he waited for Isobel, the more he continued to think about her faults. He was upset, hurt, and, though he would rather not admit it, he was lonely. To Harold, these feelings were the product of knowing Isobel. So, naturally, the more these feelings festered, the more of Isobel's quirks and faults he thought of.

Harold glanced at his watch, and then back at the door. In the span of just four minutes, Harold was sure that he had glanced back and forth at least fifteen times. Harold could barely concentrate on the show, as he anxiously anticipated her arrival.

"Up next we have Miguel singing 'These Arms of Mine," said the announcer.

Harold focus was drawn back to the television, just like when a Manchester United match or the sound of his teapot caught his attention.

Otis Redding was always one of his favourites. Harold was not particularly fond of any new music or artists, but even when he did come across the occasional new song that he liked, he always found his way back to his classics. He loved the soulful melodies of Otis Redding, Louis Armstrong, Marvin Gaye, James Taylor, and Cat Stevens, among others. That being said, he could not deny his love for Justin Timberlake. The man's voice made Harold want to move in ways he was sure his aging body would not let him.

Harold listened intently as he watched Miguel's performance. The man was gifted; there was no denying his talent, but that did not stop Harold from feeling bitterness toward him. Miguel moved and sang in a way that felt so free – so easy. As if with every move, and every note, a bit of himself flowed out through the audience. Like any artist, Harold was both fascinated and jealous.

As Miguel's performance came to an end, Harold did not even notice that Isobel had casually strode through the door and was now sitting on the couch opposite him with her feet up.

"What did I miss?" she asked. "That last performance sounded pretty good. At least, the end of it did. Shit, I wish I had seen the whole thing."

Harold swiveled his head toward the voice. His eyes fixed upon Isobel's feet. He knew right away that he would need to vacuum after she left. For a moment, Harold considered vacuuming right there and then, but he knew that would interfere with the viewing of the show, and he was sure as hell not missing any performances.

"Don't curse."

"Why?" Isobel protested. "I've heard you curse many times. Sometimes I don't even think you realize you're doing it. Like, the other day during that Manchester United game... You know, the one where they lost. You said 'fuck' and 'shit' at least seven or eight times."

"Do not speak of such things," Harold cringed.

"What? The loss?"

"Yes. Stop. I don't need reminding. I was there. Let's just move on. Now... about your cursing," Harold chided.

"I thought you said you wanted to move on?" Isobel questioned.

"I said from the game. Not from your cursing. I'm old. I get to curse. When you reach my age, you can swear all you want, and no one will judge you. If anything, they might even think it's endearing."