Morning all. I don’t know about you but Monday was an absolute beast. I didn’t think the nearly two full work days without internet would throw everything off so badly, but it appears it did. I suspect it will be a bit of a slog until wednesday where it will hopefully level out. Here’s to catching up. So with that in mind, let’s get to the morning prompt. Everyone ready? Writing implements raised, or fingers poised above keyboards? Timer ready? Good, then let’s go.
This was interesting. It feels like a middle bit somewhere rather than the start of something. But the details could be fun to work out.
Tuesday, August 3rd: She sat at the kitchen table with her crayons and watched me work.
She sat at the kitchen table with her crayons and watched me work. There was something slightly unnerving about it. I would look up from what I was doing and see those dark eyes following me. Seeing me looking, she would then reach for another color from her box and look back down at the coloring book in front of her as though she merely gave me a passing glance as she switched colors.
I could see the colors being filled in, so I knew she was working on her drawing, yet every time I looked in her direction she was watching me. In the earlier part of the day I asked if she had any questions. She said no and turned back to her page. Later I asked if she wanted to help me as I thought it might be of interest to her and was, at that time, mixing up the bread dough. I figured the lack of sharp implements involved would make it an acceptable offer when her parents questioned me.
Again I received a simple no as a response and she returned to coloring. A third time I asked if she was okay and received a yes answer and then I asked if she needed anything and received another no. After the series of yes and no responses, I gave up trying to engage the child and continued with my work.
Not for the first time, as I returned to deflating my risen dough and shaping it into smaller individual loaves for its next rise, did I wonder why the child’s parents left her here with me. There were several other play groups going on about the place. I could hear the laughter of one of the groups of children drifting in from the window as they raced across the lawn outside playing some game or other.
I suspected asking her if she wanted to join them would net me another one word response. I also expected it would be in the negative. The child seemed intent on isolation. I placed each of the smaller soon to be loaves of dough into their respective pans and then covered them with a towel, leaving them to rise.
I turned to check on the roast in the oven when the door leading into the hallway opened. I looked up, my hand already on the oven door handle. A tall man entered. His head was bald and looked polished, gleaming in the overhead lights of my kitchen domain. His eyebrows on the other hand were thick and bushy, standing guard over his eyes like startled caterpillars.
His eyes flicked to me and then instantly dismissed me.
“Come Cynthia,” he said. His voice was deep and vibrated behind my breastbone. The child slipped her crayons into her box, closed the box, closed the coloring book and picked up both. Without a word or even glance in my direction, she slid off of the chair, gathered her items and followed the man out of the door.
The door closed and I was left alone. I frowned and turned back to the oven. No part of my duties included that of babysitter but I at least expected some form of acknowledgement for having done the task. I checked on the roast and used a spoon to quickly ladle the juices over the still cooking roast, basting it a little before sliding it back into the oven.
The entire situation was odd and I wondered if I ought to ask Stephen about it that evening, or if it would be best forgotten.
Ten til Midnight 