R1 G25 Drama Action: Watering a Garden Word: Glass
Saturday afternoons are a slew of choices. Traipsing the shops searching for a bargain. Chaperoning children at the playground, as they sway too high on the swings. Saturday afternoons for Dolores are in fear. When the plastic mantel clock chimes five, her body seizes, tightened by her visceral cellular memory, anticipating his arrival.
Dinner is a pan of leek and potato soup (his request). It smelled delicious, buttery and peppery. Dolores preferred to keep the potatoes chunky: homemade, comforting. She smiled briefly, it had been a sunny and unusually dry week for Yorkshire. Striding into the outhouse, she filled an old tin watering can and stepped outside to the garden. Pottering amongst the flowers was her simple pleasure. She remembered a saying; ‘If you like a flower you will pick it, but if you love a flower you water it every day’ — just like people she thought.
Scraping he struggled to put his key into the front door. Now a resonant rattling, shaking the handle, the key fell out.
“For fuck’s sake man!”
His body slumped as he tried to pick up the key. Its silver shaft skimmed along with his fingers, and once again dropped to the ground. Delirious with alcohol-fuelled anger, his shaking fist raised and struck the small glass window pane.
Hearing a turbulent crashing Dolores dropped the watering can and attempted to run. Mind freeze. Thumping heartbeat, clammy hands, arms covered in goosebumps, legs trembling, pupils dilating she closed her eyes and softly told herself: