“OK.”
“Good girl. Now, I have to hang up, the physio is here.”
“Get busy with your exercises then, dearest Aunt.”
“Will do sweetheart. Call anytime.”
Putting the phone down, my eyes filled with tears. My dear, dear aunt. On the phone she sounded so like her twin sister—my Mom.
Mom—dead with a needle in her arm.
She died when I was eight years old. Sheila had been in the air force, stationed in Germany. I never saw her, didn’t even know I had an aunt. Instead I lived with my Dad and my brother.
Whatever.
Surely the coffee is ready by now?
The carafe is full, but stone cold. The ancient Mr Coffee machine must have bitten the dust. Can this day please get better?
Someone knocks on the door.
Dammit.
I heave myself up, and then limp over and fling open the screen door to the porch. There is Asa, a box in his arms.
“Breakfast?” he says. His golden face creases in a smile.
I'm sure I shouldn't get further entangled with Asa—but he has brought coffee and breakfast.
“I your timing is perfect,” I say, letting him in. He puts down the box and unloads a warm wrapped bundle.
“Cheese and chive scones, and raspberry cream cheese muffins.”
They smell heavenly. Coffees are in large insulated go mugs. One for me and one for him.
“Where are your plates?” he asks.
I point to the appropriate cupboard, a little surprised that I let this man into my kitchen.
“Sit,” he says.
I sit.
From under my lashes I watch him divide the pastries and put them on Aunt Sheila’s chipped crockery. It’s like a Norse warrior is serving me breakfast. If I ever were to describe Asa to someone (which will obviously never happen), I would definitely reference some kind of Viking god. The sunlight on his face made his blonde, stubbly beard glint.
We don’t talk much as we eat, and I’m grateful to have a restful companion. After we’d eaten together, Asa clears away, then scoots his chair closer to me.
“Hey sweetheart, can I have another look at your ankle?”
My ankle is a distinctly blue color this morning, but not quite as painful. I lift my leg and put it on his lap. It rests on a rock-hard thigh.
He places a warm hand around my calf, stroking it as he talks.
“I was worrying about you all night,” he says. “I think that we should take a trip to urgent care. Have it x-rayed just in case.”
His finger traces the inside of my leg and up to the knee. I’m wearing shorty pajamas, and suddenly I’m very aware of my vajayjay only being inches from his fingers,
“Harmony?”
