The routine

The old man gazed up from his garden at the tenderly bruising sky.
It seemed, to him, such an imprecise cosmos. A network of constant enjambment, flowing across and into itself. There was nothing constant enough about the stars, they never came out at the same time. Tonight, the little twinkling greenish one had come out long before the large yellow point of light that usually dominated the scene above his home.
Shaking his head and looking at his wristwatch he laughed the laugh of disbelief, as men do when their morning train is delayed. Must everything in this ridiculous universe be so random and uncooperative?
He would spend five more minutes watching the stars and having a smoke before he’d go in and check on Samantha. She usually liked to have a cup of tea around now.
Samantha was propped up in bed, like always. He could rely on his Samantha. She would be sitting there with a smile for him and a hand to hold.
What was she watching? A quiz show, there’s always a quiz show on at this time. She loved to watch them and once had a very good general knowledge. Maybe she still knows some of the answers, but she never says them.
She won’t say her husband’s name anymore, either. Each time he looks at her, his heart winces a little at the thought she can’t remember his name. He puts that thought away, soon enough. Maybe she just doesn’t want to say it anymore. Perhaps that’s it. Her smile is worth so much more than a name and it heals his heart a little, for each bite that is taken from it.
They are enjoying the quiz show, tonight, until a stupid answer from one of the contestants causes the man to start shouting at the screen. Samantha grabs his arm and links hers with it, stroking at him, calming him. He looks at her for as long as he can, bites at the inside of his cheek and tells her he is going to make another cup of tea.
It takes him three minutes longer to make than usual, and he forgets to add sugar. He sits back down on the bed and sips at the tea. It is hot and bitter, but he forces himself to drink it.
Has she noticed things failing around the house? He wonders about this, often. The roof is leaking, the front door has a cracked pane of glass, the old wireless radio’s reception is so poor, and there may be mice in the loft space. Has anything in this old house changed for her?
The old man has taken to testing his arms. He holds each up in the air for closer inspection. The muscle tone seems lesser each day and he counts the seconds in his head before each starts to shake uselessly, just about staving off atrophy.
He’s smoking again. An hour later and Samantha will start falling asleep. She’s always woken back up again, in the morning. It sounds silly to think about it, but he always does.
He tells her, how much he relies on her. He holds her hand and tells her this, as she slowly drifts off to sleep. How reliable she is, the only thing he can count on in this entire world.
When he’s sure she’s asleep, he goes and showers. He feels fresh again, after the impact of the day. He puts on clean clothes and combs his white hair back.
He turns off all the lights and checks on Samantha once more. She is sleeping and she will sleep through until morning, now, just as she does every day.
Lovely Samantha. He kisses her on the forehead and then walks out the front door.
He won’t look back now. He’ll cross the road and pass three houses to his left, before knocking on the door of the first bungalow. A lady called Margaret greets him with a kiss. She calls him Frank and she takes his coat.
He fixes himself a drink and she tells him she’ll be home late tomorrow - she’s out with the girls. He shakes his head and then takes her to bed.
He reminds her to set the alarm. He has to remind her about this, every single day.
He has to be ready in the morning. He has to be there, first thing. Be the first thing Samantha sees when she opens her lovely eyes.