Prompt: But the butter wouldn’t stick to the bread…
It was getting colder. Soon, Elenore knew she would have to fire up the furnace, but she was detemined not to do so until her boy came home from college.
She grinned at one particular memory from his last visit home, when she’d been carrying (yet another!) basket of laundry back to be put away in his (now, temporary!) bedroom.
He’d been sitting on his bed covered in every throw, wrap, blanket, and oversized towel he could find, shivering like the dickens, teeth chattering, lips blue.
“What on earth?” Elenore had been understandably alarmed.
“What?” Had been the wide-eyed response. He’d flung his hands out, knocking off a layer of prayer shawls, eyes saucer-big.
“Your mouth! Your face, it’s blue. Are you really that cold?”
“Oh, that! Sorry. I picked up an icee on the way home.”
“An icee! It’s thirty degrees outside!”
“Yeah, well. I like getting really cold, and then warming up after.” His face grew red and his eyes dropped. “Gee, I’ve never really said that out loud before. Sounds kind of weird.”
She’d closed the door and then leaned against it, hand pressed to her mouth – the last thing the kid needed was his own mother making fun of him, even if that wasn’t her intention.
Now, Elenore considered whether she wanted to go ahead and fire up the furnace, or stay chilly for just a little while longer.
“No,” she whispered. It was beyond chilly – she’d gone to make a sandwich yesterday and the butter hadn’t even stuck to the bread but had torn it – a big, heart-shaped hole in the middle.
“No,” she whispered again, this time eyeing the thermostat, a small grin spreading across her face. She decided she would warm herself up “the old fashioned way.”
She padded on down the hallway, in search of her stash of prayer shawls.