he announces his arrival with a shadow that flits itself from curtain to wall and back again. the pages on my book shadow over but i pretend to be interested in the words that keep repeating themselves like sonnets before my eyes.

i peel potatoes. i feel the starch accumulating on my pores, urging its way between thumb and index finger as knife deftly moves. the oven hums a low undertone as it's belly beats iron. the pot putters trying to escape the warmth it generates. it is these notions of presence that i long for. but at what expense i wonder?

i remember the day vividly. something edgy was in the air. i couldn't quite place it until the hammer was pounding, metal and glass and plastic and wires all at once. i remember the blue electricity i felt within me mirrored in the plugs spitting back at me. she needed to leave. all i wanted was hay and manure and the sound of roosting hens.

technology they say is supposed to be silent: the solution to all modern life's overwhelm. why then is it then that she seduced me with the lie that mumbled grunts were conversation?

the fraying jean on wooden floor can be heard again. he holds two eggs in his hands: 'they're still warm'. i smile, turning to reach into the cupboard. i motion to a wine glass. he nods, takes a seat at the counter, watching my starchy hands as they place peeled potatoes into boiling water.

'when i was about 5, when we lived in the hills, grandad would laugh before he played the concertina.'

i wipe my hands on my cotton apron, slide in next to him, my feet dangling from the high bar stool. my elbows cradle my cheeks, a slow smile forming. i nod, motioning for him to carry on talking...

{the prompt for this piece was 'she destroyed the tv and what was left was...' but it needed to be written in context of your own house and we were told that the woman in the piece physically destroyed the actual television. i found the prompt very difficult. maybe it is because i never grew up with a tv? the photo is entitled [365 048] by  corrie howell.}