Waylen stepped into the garden, his baseball cap shading his fresh face from the afternoon sun. The humid air carried the scent of blooming flowers and fresh-cut grass.
Sophia lounged under the fruitful apple tree, eyes glued to her phone.
"Shouldn’t we be unpacking?" he said, holding his Young Banker of the Year trophy.
She glanced up. "Where are you putting that?" she said.
"Someplace everyone can see it." He reached for a low-hanging apple.
"No, they’re not ripe yet, baby."
He lowered his hand and admired the detached house, its fresh white paint glaring in the sunlight. He squinted at the loft window, spotting a golden glint.
"You’re busy on your phone as usual," he said. "I’ll go and—"
"Make sangria." She smiled. "Let’s pretend we’re still on our honeymoon."
The evening arrived, and the red sunset blushed the jug of white sangria sweating on the table.
"What are you talking about?" she said, waving her half-filled glass. "I’m not drunk, baby."
"No more after that one," Waylen said.
She filled her glass. "Okay, baby, after this one."
"I’m not carrying you to bed. You’ll sleep out here with the midges."
"Oh, don’t be a wet weekend." She stood, lifted her sundress to reveal red lace underwear, knocked off his cap, grabbed his thick hair, and pressed herself to his mouth.
As the rose-tinted sky darkened, they made love in the garden and throughout the house, ending on their new mattress.
He ran his fingers over her toned, sweaty stomach. "You’re at practice tomorrow?" he said.
"Of course." She rolled onto her side.
"I can’t wait to be back at work."
"Get a hobby, baby."
"Always wanted to play professional snooker," he said. "My highest break’s sixty. Dad said I could be the next Ronnie O’Sullivan. I don’t know. Manky Mike golfs, though. You think that’d get me in with management?"
Sophia didn’t respond. He glanced at her. She was asleep, a small patch of drool pooling on her pillow. Turning onto his side, he recalled the golden glint in the window.
He stood from the rumpled bed and went to the loft.
The space was clean and well-lit. A rickety oak standing shelf in front of the small window held a golden hourglass. The red sand had settled in the bottom chamber. He flipped it, but the sand remained still. After tapping it three times, the sand began to flow.
"More of her crap to get rid of," he said.
The next morning, he woke to an empty bed.
Sophia sat at the kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs and fried green tomatoes.
"You didn’t wake me," Waylen said.
"I let you sleep. You were fidgeting all night."
"Bad dreams."
She poured herself coffee. "About what?"
"An old man eating babies. Blood and brains falling from his mouth—"
"Grim," she said, and wrinkled up her nose.
"That’s not the worst part. Afterwards, he stared at me. I shut my eyes, but he pried them open and licked my eyeball."
Sophia checked her watch. "Baby, I have to go, or I’ll be late. We’ll talk later." She grabbed her keys and left.
"Have a pleasant day," he said as he watched her drive off.
The apple tree caught his eye. "What the hell," he muttered.
He put on his leather shoes and dressing gown and entered the garden. Rotting leaves and apples littered the ground beneath the tree’s bare branches. He scratched his head as a cold wind raised goosebumps on his bare legs.
Inside, he switched on the electric fire, filling the room with the smell of burning dust. He opened the window and saw the wallpaper peeling at the edges. Pulling it away, he revealed deep cracks in the wall and watched bits of plaster crumble to the floor.
"New build, my arse," he said.
He poured a large brandy and sat in front of the television. After a while, he poured another glass and ate the leftover winter stew. Settling into an action movie, he drank a third glass.
He poured a fourth before nodding off with the glass still clutched in his hand.
He woke in a sweat, shaken from a nightmare where the old man bit off his toes.
Sophia entered the house dressed in a black ball gown and heels. "Is this what you’re doing with your days now, Waylen?" she said with her hands on her hips. "Get a hobby."
"I thought you had training today?"
"No, it’s the championship ball."
"Right. Well, the house is already falling apart. I’m calling him."
"Calling who?"
"The ombudsman. The bloody ombudsman."
"Waylen, we’re well past the new build warranty."
"Balls, stupid woman," he said, turning to the drinks cabinet. He poured brandy. "Want one?" When he turned back, he saw that she had gone.
The next afternoon, he woke to an empty bed. Through blurred vision, he saw a boy peeking in the doorway. "Can I help you?"
The boy held up a toy car.
Waylen jumped up and seized him by the arm. "Sophia," he called, "there’s a child in the house."
The boy wailed as Waylen’s bony fingers dug into him.
"The hell are you doing?" Sophia said, picking up the child. "There, there, Charlie." She shook her head at Waylen. "What’s wrong with you, you nasty turd?"
Waylen watched them disappear down the hall. "Sure. Strange kids are running around, and I’m the turd."
He staggered to the bathroom and recoiled at his reflection in the mirror. "My beautiful hair," he said, noting his scalp gleaming under the lights with streaks of wispy grey hairs. "Bald. Grey. Bald," he said, fashioning a comedic combover. He examined his face and noticed deep wrinkles around his eyes and forehead.
He rummaged through Sophia’s beauty cabinet and grabbed a tub labelled Forty Plus Anti-Wrinkle Cream. After slathering it onto his face, he washed his hands.
Downstairs, Sophia was knitting as Waylen entered the room.
"What’s that on your face?" she said.
"Your face cream," he said, heading to the drinks cabinet.
"Christ, how much did you use? That stuff costs forty pounds a tub."
"What? Forty pounds for this shit? Have you lost your mind?" He glanced at Sophia and recoiled. "Jesus, you’re old. What the hell’s going—"
"That’s it, you vicious prick." She stood from her chair. "I’ve put up with years of your abuse, clinging to some false sense of duty, hoping you’d change. I can’t believe I’ve wasted my best years on a selfish shit like you. Yes, I’m getting old. Sorry, I’m not one of those college waitresses you drool over. I’m taking Charlie, and we’re gone. Enjoy your sad little life."
Sophia left the room. Moments later, as she passed, Waylen fell to his knees and clutched her red cardigan.
"Sophia, please don’t leave. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me, to us. Where did it all go?"
She shoved him away. "Too late, Waylen. Don’t call me." She stormed out and drove off.
He wiped his tired eyes and picked up a picture of himself holding Charlie at the beach.
The doorbell rang.
"Sophia, my love," he said, rushing to the door.
"Hey, Waylen," the postman said. "Special delivery."
He took the package inside and opened it. Inside sat a gold watch and a note, Thank you for your forty years of service. Enjoy your retirement, Waylen. Best wishes from all the staff at Smith & Wellsby.
Waylen rocked back and forth, trembling with a cold sweat. "What… Where… How…"
He stumbled to bed and collapsed onto the worn-out mattress.
He woke from a nightmare where the old man gnawed off his flaccid genitals. "A dream," he said, and rubbed his eyes. "It’s all a nightmare."
Staggering to the bathroom, he spotted bright white dentures in a glass.
He looked in the mirror and wept. He had lost his teeth and now sported a long grey beard and a shiny bald head.
After inserting the dentures, he chuckled. "Someone’s put my head on upside down," he said before sobbing into his liver-spotted hands.
His eyes widened. The hourglass, he thought.
He climbed the stairs, his joints throbbing with each slow step. At the loft door, his grip faltered, too weak to push down the handle. Desperate, he leaned on it with his elbow, tearing his thinning skin. Blood trickled down the door before it creaked open. He fell forward inside the loft.
A sharp pain shot through his arm as he crawled towards the hourglass. He reached for it, and his fingers slipped down the glass. Defeated, he rolled onto his back, and in that moment, a flood of memories and deferred dreams fired in his memory. I lived my life without purpose or kindness.
As he lay on the cold floor watching, the final grain of sand fell through the hourglass, and his death rattle stirred the dust dancing in the slant of sunlight.
Bio:
Steven Bruce is a writer and multiple-award-winning author. His poems and short stories have appeared in numerous international anthologies and magazines. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a master’s degree in creative writing. An English expatriate, he now lives and writes full-time in Poland.