uninvited.

this wasn't a very good television set. it was small - twenty-seven inches, to be exact, and the image was nothing to be particularly proud about. nobody in this house watches television, or at least takes any particular pride in it, he thought. the couch was comfortable, and brought to mind those that served only as a place of rest to the heads of families; men with whom their wives no longer were willing to share a bed. the air in the house smelt of an excess of garden-scented deodorant spray, a sign that there was more than just a stale smell to conceal within these four imperial blue walls with faux gold cornices. metallic ornaments, carefully wiped and polished, gave the room a gleam that deceived those who failed to notice the photograph frames coated with a thin layer of dust. he raised the remote control in his right hand, and switched to the next channel.

fathers will do what they believe is right, because they were made into the men they are. they understand that growth must be tempered by adversity; that nothing is free in this world. fathers will give their children the life they never had, and mothers will give their children one that they have always wanted. children will forever remain caught between those two ideals. the only salvation is adulthood and the understanding it brings. thus we grow. and thus we shed;

skins, sometimes tears.

a car pulled up in the driveway and within moments, the soft gurgling of the engine abruptly stopped. he switched off the television and picking up his faded backpack, made his way upstairs.

the door clicked open and a couple walked in, ending their conversation. the man entered the kitchen, disappearing out of view and proceeded to pour himself a glass of water, while his wife surveyed the living room. having taken her coat off as she closed the door behind her, she folded it over her arm and patted it repeatedly. the sound of glass clinking against metal emanated from the kitchen. the air of affectation was beginning to wear off of her. she watched as her husband left the kitchen and made for the staircase, giving her the barest of smiles on the way past. not yet for him, she realised.

she hung her coat beside the wooden shoe rack and walked over to the wall facing the kitchen entrance window, from which an inky darkness seemed to creep into the room. with the fingertips of one hand resting gently against the pane, she gazed out into the darkness and watched shapes swirling before her. the glass reflected everything about her, but her own silhouette, which appeared as a darkened area through which she could barely discern the foliage outside.

he came back downstairs, with his faded backpack still draped over his shoulder, and walked into the kitchen, carefully watching the figure by the window. he opened the refrigerator door and peered in.

she suddenly spoke.

not like this, she said softly, her breath briefly resting against the cold sheet of glass before evaporating away.

he stood up straight and turned his head towards the kitchen door.

not like this, she repeated, her voice less controlled.

he bent over again, and looked for something to eat.

several moments passed before she spoke.

i don't want this anymore. it wasn't supposed to be like this.

he pulled out a jar of pickles and placed it on the adjacent counter-top before diving back in again. a door slammed shut upstairs.

i want to be happy again, she whispered, loud enough for him to hear. then she fell silent.

he yanked out a large can of sardines and placed it next to the jar. he shut the refrigerator door, and noticed a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread lying on the far side of the counter. he leaned over, picked it up and shoved it into his backpack, along with the sardines and pickles, placed on either side of the soft loaf.

he walked to the edge of the kitchen entrance and peeked out to see if she was still there. she was, though hunched over, and with her head buried in her hands.

he knew that she was wishing for a tear in her husband's eye. for it to fall, to hit the ground, to seep into it and to bring life back into the foundations of this house. he had seen this many times before. these are the lives that one does not learn about from strolling through the groves of academe. these are the secrets known only to one who unknowingly wanders through the intimacy of other people's lives.

he reached into his backpack and groped about, searching for something. he found it and pulled it out, shedding a few petals in the process. he rested it on the coffee table just behind her and backed away, slowly. sufficiently distant, he turned and headed to the reading room, which lead to the laundry room and out through the back door of the house. zipping up his backpack, he trudged around the opposite side of the house and back onto the main road, heading down the path and towards a destination he had, as at every daily departure, not yet decided on.

she turned around and wiping away the tears still welling up in her eyes, spotted the flower on the table. she picked it up, perplexed as to its origin. as neglected as they were, she was sure that she never had any morning glories planted in her garden. she brought it to her nose and took in a deep breath of the flower's scent. it was pleasant and it calmed her.