Mary Estrada's Pick:
Unbalanced
by Zoe Proudlove
He eased his key into the lock, breathed out slowly and pushed into the flat. The smell of burnt meat hung in the tiny hallway, mingling with the blue morning light that seeped through the half-open bedroom door.
"Only me," he said, in case she was already awake.
He dumped his bag and crept into the bathroom. He would have liked a soak, but the tub still had a ring of scum from her bath the previous night. In any case, he didn't have time. She'd be getting up soon.
He showered quickly and emerged from the bathroom to scoop the newspaper from his bag. Eight years as a printer and still he closed his eyes for the smell of fresh ink on warm paper, holding it by the edges so as not to smudge the clean white gaps between the words.
In the kitchen, he opened the oven door and started to scrape the burnt casserole into the bin. After a few seconds he gave up and dumped the pan on the drainer, wondering why he persisted in cooking for her when she never ate anything. He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes until sounds of movement from the bathroom roused him to turn on the grill and fetch eggs and bacon from the fridge.
She was still in the bathroom when he slid the rashers onto her plate. "Breakfast's ready," he called, unable to keep the note of irritation out of his voice. He didn't insist on much. Breakfast was the only meal they were sure of being able to share; all she had to do was get up in time.
She appeared at the kitchen door, looking pale and defensive, her eyes edged in grey.
"Bad night?" he asked, after their customary passionless kiss.
She nodded and lowered herself into her seat.
"Did you take your pills?"
"They just make it worse."
"You should tell Dr. Gil," he said, working hard to keep his voice neutral.
She said nothing, but reached for her orange juice. The glass lurched forward, spilling juice across her plate.
"Jesus! You must have seen that, Paul?"
He turned back to the grill and said nothing.
"It's been like this all night. They won't leave me alone."
"For god's sake, Sarah." He almost slammed his plate down onto the table but caught himself just in time. "How many times do we need to go through this? It's an old building. Things shift about. Things make noises. The rest is just your brain chemistry working overtime — "
She jumped up and grabbed her bag. "I'm late for work."
After she'd gone, he tried to concentrate on his newspaper, but the plate of ruined food niggled at him until he got up and emptied its contents into the bin. From behind, he heard the knife scraping across his plate. He folded his arms and followed the postman's progress down the street until the sound had stopped and he could go back to his coffee.
Zoe Proudlove lives, works and writes in Manchester, UK. Her story "Inside Out" appeared in Outercast magazine last year.