George Jones liked to think that he was a happy fellow. He had long since left behind the chaotic days of childhood, he had stood stalwart through his days in the workforce, and now he was content to share his days with naught more than a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Or black tea, but only on the weekends when he was feeling particularly adventurous.
It was a simple life, and some might say it was lonely, but George thought it suited him. He’d never been much for company anyway, nor had he ever found the urge well up from within to find a Mrs. and settle down. And he couldn’t even bear the thought of a George Jr. tearing about the flat and muddying all the carpets. No, the quiet life was definitely the life for George Jones, retired newspaperman.
On this particular gray Tuesday morning, the breeze was in a hurry as it pushed its way through the crowds, inviting many a coat and hat to join in with its airy dance. Peering out his dinette window and past the patchy hedgerow, George could see it all. He watched with the quarter of a smile, sipping his chamomile and chuckling at the brisk businessmen grumbling at the inconvenience of living in a world with weather. Perhaps they ought to slow down too, he thought. The wind isn’t in nearly as much of a hurry as they are.
George was glad to have left the world of bustle behind. He could still hear the whir of the presses, the incessant click of fingers on keys crafting the news of tomorrow; he could still smell the sharp acid of the ink and feel its stickiness on his dried-out fingers. The paper always dried out his fingers when he spent the afternoon combing through proofs. It irritated him that his fingers could feel so dry and so sticky at the same time.
Lost in reverie, George peered through his wire-rim glasses, perched as they always were on the end of his only slightly bulbous nose, at his now wrinkled hands. Those fingers were always dry now, but he supposed he couldn’t blame it on the paper anymore. Though he found the news waiting on the front step every morning, he rarely gave it more than a cursory glance. Today’s paper lay on the table next to him, carelessly tossed on top of his long empty ashtray, but he doubted he’d open it. He knew most of the world had passed him by, and didn’t care to be reminded.
Instead, he reached for the plain white teacup perched much nearer on the edge of his small oak table. Once strong fingers now creaking slightly, he brought the cup to his mouth, what was once used to bark assignments across the office now pursed to dispel the steam he assumed was wafting from the tea. He sipped, but didn’t taste much as his pale green eyes continued to track travelers out on the street that was now beginning to empty.
Blast it, the tea’s gone cold. Mustn’t keep losing myself in my own mind.
Thus returned to thoughts of the present day, George rose deliberately from his seat by the window and picked up the cup of chamomile that had clearly been steeping for far too long. He crossed to the sink, disposed of the oily mess down the drain, and set about preparing another go at his morning ritual. But just after he finished filling the kettle, as the stove next to the sink sat ticking and struggling to light, George Jones heard a sound that he found most peculiar for a quiet Tuesday morning.
He heard a knock at the door.