TE21 Serbian Moments
The Widower (short story) Nikola Tutek
It was a silent decision. The yellowish light in the kitchen made the olive oil look greener in its glass container. He gazed at the green core of oil, chewing slowly. He got up before finishing dinner and walked to the bedroom door. He pushed the door but did not go in. The yellowish light from the kitchen, now diluted and dusty, revealed parts of the dark room. Hints of an old-fashioned, full wood bed. It’s time, probably he thought. This is the room where she was dying. He was bringing the washbowl with hotwater and oranges into this room. Postcards from Richard. He lives in Hong Kong now. One day he called Richard and told him “She died.” Richardwas confused enough to ask “Who?” They married young and spent thirty perfectly dull years together. Between the sixteenth and twentieth-year Egan developed a drinking habit, but he cured himself. They were the only four interesting years he could remember, but not quite. Alcohol has erased so much. He insisted on the idea of these four years being very interesting. She worked in a shop, he in the post office. She at least had changed several different shops; Egan spent half of his life in the same office. The office walls were repainted eight times.
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