Everyday is Like Sunday: A Short Story

It was one of those mornings she loved. Though the mist clung close to the coast, it was probably sunny half a mile inland. The mornings weren’t yet cold enough for frost, but the chill still prevailed and she’d had to break out her winter coat. Thankfully it still fit. She breathed in the autumn air - taking in the smells she’d come to recognise as home - salt, seaweed, chips; fumes from the buses. It was almost 11am - she knew he’d be late again. She also knew he’d want to go Smith’s cafe, even though it was the greasiest of the greasy spoons in town, all plastic chairs and vinyl tablecloths, couples who looked about 100 years old tucking into black pudding and baked beans. She sat back on the bench and wondered how she’d come to view these years later on. Probably a wasted time, she’d thought, cynically, before softening. They’d had some fun together, she supposed. “Why am I thinking as though he’s gone? As though it's over already?” She asked herself, still melancholy, desp...