Incapable Of Doing Anything [Fiction]

Emma Collins, my sister-in-law, told me a day before the rehearsal dinner that Empson was incapable of doing anything right. I'd laughed it off at the time. Surely, a sister should have kind things to say about her only brother. Now, I wasn't so sure.

Empson and I had been married a year and a half and lately, I'd been measuring my life one day at a time, the way Lena Martell sang it.

The times he left the kettle whistling on the stove until the water dried out. How he forgot to latch the back door or pay utility bills even though the money was there.

The cold was biting. I pulled the collar up around my neck as I ran through scenarios in my head. I walked by a pastry shop, slowed and turned back.

There was a mouthwatering display of cakes, tarts and buns at the window. A crooked carrot cake caught my eye. I stepped inside and met a woman dusting flour off her apron. Her smile was easy, like she enjoyed being surrounded by her work.

“I'll take the carrot cake,” I said, pointing.

“Oh.” She hesitated. “It's not our best. My apprentice baked it. Thought I'd encourage her by displaying it for a while before taking it down. Didn't think anyone would want it.”

“That's alright,” I said. She wrapped it nicely and I took it home.

Empson was at the table, fixing the radio. Its parts were scattered in front of him. He looked up, surprised. “You are back early.”

I shrugged and placed the cake on the table. “I bought a cake.”

“Cool,” he said, wiping his hand on his shirt. I cringed. “What's the occasion?”

I shrugged again. “Nothing. Just…let's eat.”

He grabbed a knife and two plates, then cut two slices, one bigger than the other. Noticing, he pushed the bigger piece towards me. I almost said something but stopped myself. He always gave without asking.

I took a bite. The cake was too sweet and slightly burnt at the bottom but moist and buttery. Not bad.

“I tried to fix the hinge on the pantry door,” he said, showing me his badly bruised knuckle. “I'll try again tomorrow.”

I sighed. There it was again—the trying thing which led to imperfect efforts. “Emma called.”

He paused chewing, his shoulders slumping. “What did she want?”

I shrugged. “Just that she was leaving Perry. For good this time.”

“They've been married for ten years,” he said, almost to himself.

We finished the cake in silence. It wasn't the best but we ate it anyway, sitting across from each other, wondering how long we would last.

I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "incapable of doing anything".

Thank you for visiting my blog.

^{_{Image credit: Icsilviu}}