Flying Saucer

by Ann Davie

No bread. No milk. Not even one of those horrid, dried-out muesli bars he claims are healthy. I know perfectly well what's in the pantry, but I ponder its contents as if a previously undiscovered packet of ambrosia lay in wait, hidden by the God of Missed Breakfasts.

Instead, I find a marketing executive's wet dream – breakfast cereal. Nothing flaky or remotely whole-meal about it. Iridescent colours and a texture only a snack food extruder can provide.

Forget about him. He can go to hell. No, wait…not there. I don't want him anywhere near me.

I sit down and push away the congealed toasted cheese from Sarah's breakfast. Tom's splashes of milk and cereal puddle around my elbow. I could cry, but there isn't even one, beautiful, lovely hot tear in me. I could laugh, but the pile of laundry is snarling in a menacing way that drains the life from me. 

So, I pour a big bowl of cereal. I have the choice of a teaspoon, a serving spoon or salad tongs, but decide fingers are most appropriate.

I can still feel him near me. My skin itches from his phantom touch. His scent irritates my nose, but when I really try, I can only smell the sour sink nearby. I suppose I'm just looking for ways to hate him. Isn't taking the last slice of bread and dregs from the milk bottle grounds for divorce somewhere?

I scoop up a handful of the tasteless, if colourful, stuff and chomp down hard on something decidedly un-cereal-like. I spit out a plastic flying saucer, its purple and green paintwork provides the perfect camouflage for hiding amid the coloured hoops. After checking, no emergency dental work is required.  Thank god for that at least.

I toss the plastic toy on to the kitchen counter and notice that two lunch boxes are stranded. Tom's and his. Figures. It must be one of those proverbial "guy things." Would it really hurt him to buy a hamburger with the lot once in awhile with the boys from his office?  What do they think of his cut lunches and obligatory apple? I used to find it endearing. Maybe I still do. But would it really kill him to jump out of his skin once in awhile?

I take a quick shower and pull on some trackpants and an old workshirt. The soft flannel clings to my still wet back. I shake the water from my hair and scramble into the car. Two boxes sit on the front seat.

Five minutes later I sneak into Tom's schoolroom. He shoots me an "oh mum" look and turns to mouth off to a classmate. So much for gratitude.

Fifteen minutes driving, twenty minutes parking and I'm standing at the receptionist's desk, thinking that maybe I should get a job now.  I could get a decent haircut, a skirt or two. Maybe I'll do that.

I find out he's in a meeting on another floor and leave the lunchbox for him to collect later. I think I'll wander around the shops before heading home. There's just that hint that spring is about to make its grand entrance. The air seems full of something, I don't know what. Light or buzzing or some earthy scent.

He isn't that bad I suppose. I'm as much to blame for the routine.  No strike that. There is no blame involved. It just happens. How can you get through the day without it? I can't help feeling

That maybe getting through is not all it's cracked up to be, though.

I head back to the car after discovering that the less there is to a garment, the more it costs. I suppose I could dig out my pre-childbearing clothes and see what I can get away with.

It's hot in the car. My head swims, jarred briefly by the crackling radio.  A storm out west, no doubt. The cool change later will be welcomed. The phone buzzes. I know I'm not supposed to do it, but I dig around for it in my purse while nudging the steering wheel with my knees. I pull it out and hit the button.

It's him. He's called to say thank you for the peanut butter sandwich and chips. He could only manage one of the choc biscuits but did rather enjoy the raspberry cordial. And he loved the tiny spaceship and would I like to go out for dinner tonight for some Thai, just the two of us.

I remind myself to get another box of that cereal.