John woke up that morning on May 23rd with a dull pain in his right shoulder and felt grateful that it at least wasn’t his back. At 52 years old his body found ways of torturing him every night, whether it was his neck, back or shoulders, sometimes they all worked in synchronization, as if his body were staging a coup upon itself. He felt old and out of shape, but he never admitted to himself that he needed to start exercising again or eating properly, that would mean accepting that something was seriously wrong with him. After having enough of his own thoughts he finally moved out of bed and shuffled on to his wardrobe in the corner of the room. A tall, dark oak wardrobe containing rows of colored flannel shirts and blue jeans stood before him, everything folded neatly and placed with care by his wife. He chose a red flannel long sleeve. It felt like a red flannel kind of day.

 After getting changed he walked out of his room and went downstairs to the kitchen where his wife sat eating breakfast, with their dog sitting at the foot of her seat eagerly awaiting any scraps unwittingly dropped on the floor. A plate had been prepared for John and placed in front of the chair he always sat at. Bacon and eggs. His wife liked to make conversation in the morning. John, on the other hand, claimed that no sane man opened his mouth before 10.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“What’s on your agenda today, honey?” his wife asked

“Work.” he replied

“Do you need anything at the groceries today?” she continued, changing the subject

“Nope.” he said before pushing his chair out

He had already had enough of talking for the morning, and so he stood up and gave the leftovers on his plate to the dog. John firmly insisted that every man should have a dog, and any other pet was either a toy, or for women. He reinforced this idea by picking out the meanest looking pitbull he could find at the town’s local shelter a few years back and giving it the name “Shredder”. Ironically, Shredder had the temperament of an old house cat.

John's mornings were unstructured. He did what he wanted, and how he wanted. But one of the few givens of his day was the kiss he would give his wife on the cheek before leaving for work; a treasured tradition born in the early days of their relationship, which he made sure to do before grabbing his keys and going out the entrance to his pickup truck. His job took him a 45 minute drive out of town on a dirt road through endless fields of wheat and corn. He was one of the few citizens who left the town daily, followed only by the cloud of beige dust left by his truck.