Old Ben

Old Ben’s formica table peeled at the yellowing edges where the rusted border gaped and collected fragments of cereal. Stacked slightly off-centre was Ben’s spartan crockery and cutlery. They were the remains of a wedding present which had over the years lost pieces through neglect, ignorance and argument. All that remained was a single place setting for one; the simplicities of a widower. Beside the stack was a white linen napkin, rolled, and kept in place by his grandfather’s monogrammed napkin ring. The door bell chimed its tune and the laughter of grandchildren frolicked outside, wanting to come in.

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