(This is an ongoing story. Click here to read part 1.)
“Bloody solicitors.” He paid the knock no mind and, with a disgruntled mutter, returned his attention to the stubborn stove, which continued its ticked resistance as his hand rested lightly on the knob. Just as the smell of gasoline grew noticeable, a cheerful blue flame leapt to life between the heavily oxidized grate and the time-stained beige of the range. He claimed the kettle from its mottled white laminate counter resting place and—
Knock. Knock. KNOCK. The third sounded more insistent, as though the wood itself were urging him to respond. George couldn’t imagine the nerve of the fellow, and, seeing as his morning had now been rudely interrupted three times (never mind that one occasion had been due to the wanderings of his own mind and had nothing to do with the clearly ill-mannered and ignoble chap who now stood out on his front step, having a bit of a row with George’s own door by the sound of it), he decided he ought to make his mind clear.
“Go away!” His voice was stern, deep but not loud, the kind that matched the bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows and furrowed brow that crowned George’s visage. The voice had grown used to speaking across the incessant rumble of the newsroom. “I don’t want any of whatever it is, and I’ve half a mind to—” His voice was interrupted by a sudden wheeze that exploded into a fit of coughing. Hurriedly replacing the kettle, he leaned over the counter, stars dancing in his eyes as his lungs’ protestations reverberated through the cramped kitchen space. He fought for composure, sucking in air to replace the blasts that his diaphragm was so frantically expelling.
Each second seemed eternal. It was terrible; the pain lasted just as long. He thought himself lucky; if the second were to be his last, he’d be quite pleased if it wanted to hang around just a little longer than normal. Seconds make good company to a man not ready to leave it all behind. But the ache deep his chest told him his company was starting to disperse.
The fit finally subsided, the last echoes died away on the linoleum, and he replaced them with a renewed burst of even angrier mutterings at the man who had caused his wonderful morning to go so downhill so quickly. “Making me carry on at him, before I haven’t even had a proper cup of tea.” Determined to right that oversight in his morning ritual, he firmly grasped the kettle’s handle and, turning back toward the stove, raised his voice again, “Can’t you hear I’m not interested, go bother someone—”
“Please, sir!” At the sound of the voice weakly emanating through the door George paused, astonished to hear not the brashness of a salesman but the soft tones of an unsure woman filtering into his home. “I am so sorry to have disturbed your morning so rudely, but please: if this is the home of Mr. George Jones, formerly of the Times, please let me in.”