seeing glass

The streetlamps stutter and die, the barely perceptible humming turns silent, replaced with the sounds of cars. At first, just one or two, but later there will be a concerto of beeps and rattles and growls. For now, there is near silence and Henry wonders what it was that woke him up. Liz always maintained she couldn't hear the streetlamps, that he was making a fuss over nothing. Admittedly it wasn't overly loud, but that was what made it worse; an insistent mosquito humming at the periphery of your hearing. He'd have complained to the council long time ago, but she'd talked him out of it.
The room is still dark, the morning light not strong enough to have made its way past the curtains.

He turns, half asleep still, and reaches his hand over the wrinkled duvet to where she used to sleep. Now, he goes to bed alone after yet another unfulfilling evening, where he watches telly with the sound up just a bit too loud, and dram after dram of whisky. Anything to blot it out. The silence in the house is ear-splitting now that she's gone. He sits up slowly, using his elbows to force him up, fumbles for his glasses which he carelessly threw on the side, and hauls himself out of bed. On with the dressing gown. One of the belt loops has broken, and he struggles to reach around his back to tie it. Bloody hell. If only Liz could see him now, she'd bloody kill him. He left last night's clothes at the end of the bed, in a sad looking heap. She used to go ballistic if he didn't put his clothes in the wash. Said that he was a cliché for leaving his dirty socks on the floor. The room is untidy, and it smells like old man. When had that happened? How the hell had he got so ancient?

Oh yes. That was what woke him. Today was his birthday. Silly how these things slip your mind. It used to be that he would wake up early, excited to get his presents from the family. He remembers John and Will, bouncing in with a tray of breakfast, half the tea spilled everywhere in a rush to get him to open his yearly packets of socks, pants and ties. And Liz, after the excitement had died, would send them away to give him his special birthday present... Hmm. Bet no one has bothered to get him anything this year. John and his family might have sent him a card, the wife reminding him dutifully. Liz used to do that. Ring them up and remind them that it was coming. Not now. Will would have forgotten. The neighbour, Ada, has hinted over the fence that she would expect him to pop over for tea. Interfering old baggage. She was always coming over, trying to look past him when he opened the front door so that she could tell her friends how the house has gone to pot without Liz here to look after it.

Anyway. Better get to the toilet. His bladder usually has him up a few times in the night. A few times too many, and he was starting to get, not worried, no, but it preyed on his mind sometimes in the middle of the night. He should probably go to the doctors, but he didn't want to make a fuss about something that was more than likely nothing. He shuffles down the hall, and into the bathroom, pulling the stiff cord to turn on the light. The tiles are really cold under his feet. British Gas put the prices up again this year, and he refuses to pay their extortionate rates while he's asleep and warmed under the duvet. He wishes he could find his other slipper. There's one under the bed, but the other one has vanished. Although, he must have come upstairs with them both on. It must be in the bedroom somewhere.

He sits down to relieve himself. His balance is going, and it saves having to clean up if he misses the bowl. The busybodies at the council had come and installed handles next to the toilet for Liz when she had first got ill, and he now used them himself. Bugger. No loo roll. He shakes himself, and pulls himself up, trying to not look at his hands, which have started to look like they are made of crepe paper. Feels like it too. As he does, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. That's not him looking back. The man in the mirror is small and tired, a wispy grey cloud around his head where there should be dark brown locks. He peers in. His glasses are slightly lopsided, and they cover wrinkled and saggy eyes. He has a few days stubble, no, almost a beard and he looks fragile. Like he could fall and break at any moment. He glares at the man in the mirror, and the man there pulls some kind of grimace back at him. Bloody hell. Better get cracking. It is his birthday today, after all, but it's bloody miserable getting old on his own.