original fic/ Untitled 2
Tom leans against the doorframe. He looks at his mother, she is standing right in front of the window the morning light makes a blue silhouette out of her. Her hands are moving gently and yet firm, as if they move on their own, following patterns learnt long ago, when his mother was just a child, learning to bake to please her own father.
Tom has never met his grandfather, he died when his mother was barely twenty years old, but she told him how she used to cook for her father when he was back from his trips. Tom’s grandfather was a pilot, and when Tom was a kid he used to dream about airplanes and faraway places. Then he grew up, and the place which skies and clouds had occupied in his heart was taken up by words and stories.
His mother hums some song as she cuts the apples. The first thing that she made for her dad was an apple pie.
“Good morning, mom.”
Anne lifts her head and smiles, one of her soft smiles, which makes him think about bread and milk. He walks up to her, and without saying anything takes the knife out of her hand and continues to chop the apples.
“Thank you, darling. Do you want some coffee?”
Tom nods and thinks that his mother will always be the same, so gentle and kind, as she has always been. There was a time, when he was a sixteen years old, when he hated being around his father, around his coldness and his judgments, and his mother had been the only light in that house. She was always shining gently.
They sit at the kitchen table, the pie is finally in the oven. Anne sips her coffee with milk slowly, looking at Tom above the brim of her mug.
“So how are things going? How is your flatmate doing?”
Tom swallows a gulp of coffee, it is hot and it burns his throat.
“He is fine.”
Something heavy settles at the bottom of his stomach, the weight of Jack’s gaze every time that he leaves for his parents’ house without him. The weight of all the years that he has spent without telling his parents about his relationship with Jack.
Anne gets up and goes in the other room, Tom sits alone in the kitchen, the humming of the oven fills his ears. He thinks about Jack, about all the times that they’ve made love, all the times that they’ve cooked together, and laughed and kissed.
His mobile phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Thinking about you. Jack.”
Tom sighs and put the phone back in his pockets. He knows that he doesn’t deserve Jack, and yet he knows that he could never let him go.
Tom has never met his grandfather, he died when his mother was barely twenty years old, but she told him how she used to cook for her father when he was back from his trips. Tom’s grandfather was a pilot, and when Tom was a kid he used to dream about airplanes and faraway places. Then he grew up, and the place which skies and clouds had occupied in his heart was taken up by words and stories.
His mother hums some song as she cuts the apples. The first thing that she made for her dad was an apple pie.
“Good morning, mom.”
Anne lifts her head and smiles, one of her soft smiles, which makes him think about bread and milk. He walks up to her, and without saying anything takes the knife out of her hand and continues to chop the apples.
“Thank you, darling. Do you want some coffee?”
Tom nods and thinks that his mother will always be the same, so gentle and kind, as she has always been. There was a time, when he was a sixteen years old, when he hated being around his father, around his coldness and his judgments, and his mother had been the only light in that house. She was always shining gently.
They sit at the kitchen table, the pie is finally in the oven. Anne sips her coffee with milk slowly, looking at Tom above the brim of her mug.
“So how are things going? How is your flatmate doing?”
Tom swallows a gulp of coffee, it is hot and it burns his throat.
“He is fine.”
Something heavy settles at the bottom of his stomach, the weight of Jack’s gaze every time that he leaves for his parents’ house without him. The weight of all the years that he has spent without telling his parents about his relationship with Jack.
Anne gets up and goes in the other room, Tom sits alone in the kitchen, the humming of the oven fills his ears. He thinks about Jack, about all the times that they’ve made love, all the times that they’ve cooked together, and laughed and kissed.
His mobile phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Thinking about you. Jack.”
Tom sighs and put the phone back in his pockets. He knows that he doesn’t deserve Jack, and yet he knows that he could never let him go.