Accidental Crime - 3

Dawn

Tea-making had been harder than usual. It disappointed Dawn that such a mundane activity would cause her this level of distress. It was, of course, not made any easier by the interruption she had so nobly withstood. She had not been prepared for conversation – with Jarrod or anyone who might enter her kitchen at 5 in the morning – and was surprised at the dignity she had displayed in her responses, even clarifying the inaccuracy of Jarrod’s timekeeping.

The tea had helped her focus on all that would distinguish this day from any other. She contemplated the meeting she had scheduled for 11 that morning and revisited the feelings of anxiety she had been so keen to suppress the night before by immersing herself in a documentary about a child born with wing-like growths beside each shoulder blade.

Breakfast was out of the question. Cereal was rarely an attractive proposition at any time of the day, and as for toast, well, it would need to be at least 6 before a slice became potentially manageable. There were fewer more depressing sights in life than one slice of toast taking over 15 minutes to gradually make its way, piece by agonising piece, through the remarkably difficult digestion process, each piece lingering in the mouth until it became little more than soggy wheat, the parched tongue relinquishing all hope of effortlessly ushering it to the safety of the stomach below.

She glanced down at the left sleeve of the Pink Panther pyjamas that had seen her through the most significant six years of her development into the woman she was today. The cause of the chill that had run along her forearm became clear; an almost perfect oval of dampness confirmed that she had indeed let water drip from the kettle earlier, the work surface unnecessarily hydrated before being partially transported to the 100% cotton concealing the goose-bumps that had arrived on cue the moment Jarrod had entered. How had it taken her so long to notice? She drew the sleeve back with her right hand, drying her arm with repeated caresses. Her nostrils exhaled sharply as Jarrod, with raised-eyebrows, flashed across her mind.

It was, she realised, a little ironic that, after taking the care to dry her forearm, her next meaningful act of the morning would be to drench her entire body beneath the pummelling pressure of the newly-installed shower head; reapplying that which she had just removed, like a serial sinner unable to break the cycle.

She momentarily toyed with the idea of leaving the bathroom door unlocked, just to see what he would do. She was almost certain that she didn’t want to be seen but the thrill of the possibility was enough to permit the idea to linger that little bit longer.

A cold shiver shot down her spine, prompting an involuntary shake of the head and an accompanying clenching of each fist. Pressing her knuckles against the table, she raised herself out of her chair and shuffled to the foot of the stairs.

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