The sun is cascading through the thinly veiled curtains, brightly bouncing off each and every cell of dust floating through the air around his bed. Wilmer lies on the right side of his bed, a worn nightstand with a tattered lamp stands at his bedside. They are all surrounded by the barren room, the wallpaper slightly peeling at its corners and the floorboards shaking just enough to always squeak. Just as his wrinkled eyelids begin to pull back, Wilmer breathes deep. He turns toward the empty side of the bed and a glimmer of hope shines for just a second but quickly disintegrates.
He heads for the bathroom now, sitting up and slipping on a pair of heavily creased moccasin slippers left just where he needed them below his bed. Shuffling toward the door, the house echoes with every leather scratch against the cold, morning wood. The brass door handle is icy, which Wilmer does not acknowledge. He pushes through the door as it squeals in rusted pain. The bathroom was just down the corridor, near the head of the stairs. The long and winding rugs down the halls were tattered on their corners. Cat hair was sprinkled consistently over every inch of their intricate, faded designs. Holding on to the guard rail over the stairs, Wilmer finds himself at the door. He looks back toward his room once more, perhaps he had missed her in the shady spots of the room. But no one followed.
The medicine cabinet contained hundreds of orange capsules with white lids, their prescriptions in their old age. The wall of pills was overwhelming to Wilmer every time he thought about the number of chemicals and medicines it took to keep him going. He lowers onto the toilet, the door still sits open but with no one peering through. A sensation of fur slithers between legs, a Chartreux cat with yellow eyes like two of the ripest of lemons. His name flashes on the tag of his color, it is Julius. Wilmer bends toward him and gently runs his withered hand down the coarse fur, Julius guiding him. “Good morning, my friend,” says Wilmer. Julius replies with a wink and purr. Wilmer is washing his hands now; he reaches for soap when he notices the pill organizer lying just next to it. Each of its compartments is labeled for each day of the week, each fully stocked with each day’s necessary meds. Except for Sunday, meaning that today had to have been Monday.
Wilmer shuffles down the hallway again, this time toward the stairs. He takes every step with deliberation and care, Wilmer’s not like he used to be. With each pressure shift, the stairs creak in different notes like a morning melody. The window just above the front door shot its beam directly to where Wilmer stood at the foot of the stairs. He remained there for a second, in the warm embrace of the sun, an embrace he was familiar with but had forgotten so long ago. He slowly turns back toward the stairs, as if he were looking to the heavens above for her. Yet there was no such woman. Julius peered through the wooden pillars of the guardrails above Wilmer.
It was 7:42 AM, according to that silly cat clock just above the kitchen cabinet. Its eyes swayed back and forth in tandem with its long, black tail. Beth had put that up first thing when they had moved in, all those years ago. “I like how it looks around, wagging its tail. It’s so light and happy in this dreary old house,” said Beth. “It won’t stay like this for long,” said Wilmer. “We’re gonna have this place looking like a castle soon enough.” The clock hangs in the kitchen, nothing else does. Its only company is the tattered curtains above the sink and the old wedding photo on the kitchen counter.
The menu was the same every day for them, but now he only had to cook one meal. The refrigerator was always overstocked from consistent grocery shopping every day. Wilmer would often cook her meal, scrambled eggs with extra crispy bacon. It was something anybody could make but she always insisted that his was different. “There’s always an extra something in yours, honey.” Maybe she would come down those stairs today, maybe he could see that smile again. Wilmer bent down slowly, lurching into the fridge for the ingredients. After a few minutes and no luck, he turns to check his receipts from yesterday’s shopping trip.
There on the kitchen counter, laid out with delicate care and precision, were the ingredients he had been looking for. The eggs were placed in a bowl, ready to be cracked. The whisk lay next to it in anticipation. The bacon was already on the sprayed frying pan, all that was needed was the heat of the stove. Next to that were the spices, salt, and pepper with a few shakes of red pepper flakes for Beth. She liked just a bit of a kick in her eggs.
Wilmer placed the pan on the stove as it began to sizzle. The smell of the meat filled the room and brought a bit of color with it. Then the eggs which he cracked the eggs with ease and elegantly dripped them into the bowl. Wilmer took his whisk and rattled it around the bowl as if he had never left this state. The room started to light up and the dreary grays grew into their colors once hidden by the old eyes of time. When both components were ready, Wilmer placed them among the two plates. One was made of cheap paper, the other a curvy swirl of blue and white fine china. He sat both plates down and took a seat in front of his. He was facing the direction of the door to the main hall, where the stairs remain silent. Up bounded Julius onto the table, admiring Wilmer. The table settings were placed.
