Just a short story.

Haven't posted in a while.
So, here's a short story.
Nothing brilliant or flashy.
It doesn't possess a point, or moral.. It's just simply a snapshot of a moment.

Insert deep, emotionally affecting title.

He had seen it all, seen everything; been a witness to change. The old man, his cat and his ancient, lone, stained, red-brick house standing as a testament to the past. A year, even less than, this white, sterile building crept upwards, a chasm breaking apart the very foundation of familiarity that the old man was so dependent on.

The house across the road remained undisturbed for days. It was not a home, it was a building; there was no warmth or life to it. On sunny days its sharp, square edges were defamation to the clear, blue sky and the light tufts of white-grey cotton candy that drifted past. It was rainy days that the old man would turn to his cat and say:

“Ugly. Ugly! The building does not deserve the suns sweet caress!”

When the weather was foul, the old man felt it was one of his agents revealing the true colours of the building, across the road. He could taste the tones of grey, the sharp acidic sting of its corners, and the musky, bitter taste of industry on the tip of his tongue.

*                                                                        *                                                                        *

The old man stared up into the ceiling. The small particles of dust bouncing upwards filling the room with every movement he made. The sun sifted through, spilling over the gaps in the blinds, unwavering. It captured each spec, turning ordinary dead cells to life, shimmering and hovering in mid-air. A single sigh, he turned to his side. A wrinkled hand reached out, tracing the frame of a wedding photo. If it wasn’t for the stark, icy blue eyes of the man within the photo and the old man, the couple would have been barely recognisable.

With sudden vitality he shot up and the startled cat leaped from the bed into the floor.

It was routine: kettle—on, radio—on , cat—fed, water—boiled , tea, two slices of buttered toast and marmalade jam, sound of a loud automobile and a shrill voice?

“Darling it’s perfect, magnificent, simply divine, a masterpiece of innovation!”

“Poppycock” uttered the old man as he took an irritated bite from one slice, “She must have no taste, no taste at all!”

Revelling in disapproval he gave into temptation. He had to steal a glance.

The burgundy vehicle sat stationary in the front of the building across the road. Its fumes mixed into the air, making a noxious concoction. He watched on. Out came a women—slender figure, trench coat the colour of perfectly baked bread, short, bobbed, neatly curled hair and a navy, velvet hat.

She leant languidly on the car lifting a small foot enclosed in a tailored, leather heel into the rim of the door. She caught the glimpse of an outline protected by window shades, turned towards it and gave a delicate, warm smile and a little wave.

The old man stood frozen, paralysed, by his first glimpse of her face. The gentle outline of her lips, the shining, emerald eyes and peachy cheeks filled his body with a tingle he had not felt in years—starting from the centre of his body reaching out to the ends of his toes. It was nostalgia. He dared to look away, to compare. The frame was sitting just nearby on the side table, the one he touched every morning.

Taking one last glance, he pulled the blinds shut.