Post by Sophia Montague on Oct 4, 2012 2:52:26 GMT
The evenings were growing shorter and so far, Autumn had been mild. The forecast for the week warned about the weather turning, but it was already Friday and the promised storm had barely manifested as slightly grey clouds dotted about the pale blue sky when Sophia had left work just after four.
The week at the laboratory had been terrible. No matter how many variables she tested and techniques she tried, it was as though the microbes were on a personal mission to make her work worthless and to make her colleagues doubt her aptitude. Nothing was working for her. And to make matters worse, her headaches were increasing in strength, though she wasn’t sure if that was because of anything medical or simply because she was so stressed.
A couple of colleagues had invited her out for the evening for drinks and dancing, to help her relax, but she declined. She didn’t tell her colleagues that the reason she was turning down there invitation was because she had found a new recipe for a vegetarian soup that she really wanted to try. It wasn’t exactly the most exciting of Friday nights, but she was really craving soup and hadn’t the time in the week to make it. She could almost imagine the looks of envy those same colleagues would give her next week when she had her glorious soup to warm her through the miserable weather while they stuck to their sandwiches from the canteen.
She had chopped the vegetables and dumped them into the pot of boiling water before she remembered that she had eaten the last of her bread that morning. And what good was homemade soup without bread? Homemade bread, if possible. She checked the fridge and, sure enough, there was the little note she had left for herself, reminding her to go to the bakers just outside the city on her way home from work. She plucked the note from the fridge, balled it up and tossed it into the fireplace where it crackled and shriveled up. Not for the first time she questioned why she left herself notes and lists when she most often forgot them anyway.
Checking the simmering vegetables again, she weighed her options. The sun hadn’t set yet and it didn’t look like it was going to start raining any time soon. The vegetables would take about twenty or thirty minutes to cook and absorb the seasonings she had sprinkled into the water. That was plenty of time to go across the city and pick up a loaf. She checked the clock above the door. Five thirty. Rush hour. If she took the car she would never make it all the way out there and back in less than thirty minutes. She could walk, but while that would keep her moving it would still take ages to make the trip. There was only one way she was going to get bread and get back before the vegetables turned to mush.
Sophia turned the cooker down to a low simmer and darted into her bedroom to quickly change from her pencil skirt which she wore for work, into skinny jeans, which she tucked her pale yellow blouse into before pulling a grey cardigan on over it. The fire in the living room was already burning low, but she set the guard over the front of it anyway just in case. She grabbed her bag, making sure her keys and purse were still in there, and left her apartment. The elevator took her to the ground floor where she left the building and jogged around to the bike shed at the back. Her bicycle, which average in every way, was rarely ever used other than for instances like this. She placed her bag into the basket in the front, opened the padlock on the chain and piled that into the basket, too. There was a mildly chilly nip in the air but she knew it wasn’t enough to need a coat. She would warm up once she got moving and it wouldn’t take long anyway.
Ten minutes later, Sophia emerged from the baker with a loaf of wheaten bread, still slightly warm from the oven, and a small tub of real, churned butter. Her mouth watered as she put the carrier bag into the basket and set off back up the road that would lead her home.
Five minutes into her journey, the sky darkened, and in the same moment that Sophia looked up at the angry clouds, they opened up cool water rained down, turning the grey of her cardigan to dark charcoal and making the cotton of her blouse stick to her skin. The shock knocked a gasp from her lungs and she leaned lower over the handlebars and peddled as hard as she could, quickly picking up speed. Puddles were gathering in the road and in the ditches and, soaked through, Sophia didn’t pay attention to which mirrored patches were puddles and which were deeper potholes.
The front wheel of her bicycle dipped suddenly into the road and clipped the edge of a hole, and the handlebars almost whipped out of her wet hands. A pop followed, and Sophia let out a yelp as her bicycle rocked, shaking her balance, and she was forced to slow down. Looking down at her wheel she could see how close the rim was to the road, and she stopped. To keep going would be to destroy the whole wheel and that would be a lot harder to fix than a simple puncture.
Hunching her shoulders against the rain, she wheeled the bicycle to the grassy ditch, out of the road, and crouched down to examine the damage. It wasn’t as bad as she had feared and with a small smile she knew she could fix it. She reached for the basket… and froze with her hand clutching the rim. She forgot to take the repair kit. Her shoulders drooped, despite the rain, and stood up again. The road was devoid of traffic. It was one she took when she was on her bike because it ran around the edge of the city, away from traffic and commotion. This evening, she wished she had taken a route through the city. Buses didn’t come this way and she didn’t have the number for any taxi service, and she doubted any would pass by without a passenger. Sighing, she looked at the darkening horizon, and started walking, pushing her bike beside her.
The week at the laboratory had been terrible. No matter how many variables she tested and techniques she tried, it was as though the microbes were on a personal mission to make her work worthless and to make her colleagues doubt her aptitude. Nothing was working for her. And to make matters worse, her headaches were increasing in strength, though she wasn’t sure if that was because of anything medical or simply because she was so stressed.
A couple of colleagues had invited her out for the evening for drinks and dancing, to help her relax, but she declined. She didn’t tell her colleagues that the reason she was turning down there invitation was because she had found a new recipe for a vegetarian soup that she really wanted to try. It wasn’t exactly the most exciting of Friday nights, but she was really craving soup and hadn’t the time in the week to make it. She could almost imagine the looks of envy those same colleagues would give her next week when she had her glorious soup to warm her through the miserable weather while they stuck to their sandwiches from the canteen.
She had chopped the vegetables and dumped them into the pot of boiling water before she remembered that she had eaten the last of her bread that morning. And what good was homemade soup without bread? Homemade bread, if possible. She checked the fridge and, sure enough, there was the little note she had left for herself, reminding her to go to the bakers just outside the city on her way home from work. She plucked the note from the fridge, balled it up and tossed it into the fireplace where it crackled and shriveled up. Not for the first time she questioned why she left herself notes and lists when she most often forgot them anyway.
Checking the simmering vegetables again, she weighed her options. The sun hadn’t set yet and it didn’t look like it was going to start raining any time soon. The vegetables would take about twenty or thirty minutes to cook and absorb the seasonings she had sprinkled into the water. That was plenty of time to go across the city and pick up a loaf. She checked the clock above the door. Five thirty. Rush hour. If she took the car she would never make it all the way out there and back in less than thirty minutes. She could walk, but while that would keep her moving it would still take ages to make the trip. There was only one way she was going to get bread and get back before the vegetables turned to mush.
Sophia turned the cooker down to a low simmer and darted into her bedroom to quickly change from her pencil skirt which she wore for work, into skinny jeans, which she tucked her pale yellow blouse into before pulling a grey cardigan on over it. The fire in the living room was already burning low, but she set the guard over the front of it anyway just in case. She grabbed her bag, making sure her keys and purse were still in there, and left her apartment. The elevator took her to the ground floor where she left the building and jogged around to the bike shed at the back. Her bicycle, which average in every way, was rarely ever used other than for instances like this. She placed her bag into the basket in the front, opened the padlock on the chain and piled that into the basket, too. There was a mildly chilly nip in the air but she knew it wasn’t enough to need a coat. She would warm up once she got moving and it wouldn’t take long anyway.
Ten minutes later, Sophia emerged from the baker with a loaf of wheaten bread, still slightly warm from the oven, and a small tub of real, churned butter. Her mouth watered as she put the carrier bag into the basket and set off back up the road that would lead her home.
Five minutes into her journey, the sky darkened, and in the same moment that Sophia looked up at the angry clouds, they opened up cool water rained down, turning the grey of her cardigan to dark charcoal and making the cotton of her blouse stick to her skin. The shock knocked a gasp from her lungs and she leaned lower over the handlebars and peddled as hard as she could, quickly picking up speed. Puddles were gathering in the road and in the ditches and, soaked through, Sophia didn’t pay attention to which mirrored patches were puddles and which were deeper potholes.
The front wheel of her bicycle dipped suddenly into the road and clipped the edge of a hole, and the handlebars almost whipped out of her wet hands. A pop followed, and Sophia let out a yelp as her bicycle rocked, shaking her balance, and she was forced to slow down. Looking down at her wheel she could see how close the rim was to the road, and she stopped. To keep going would be to destroy the whole wheel and that would be a lot harder to fix than a simple puncture.
Hunching her shoulders against the rain, she wheeled the bicycle to the grassy ditch, out of the road, and crouched down to examine the damage. It wasn’t as bad as she had feared and with a small smile she knew she could fix it. She reached for the basket… and froze with her hand clutching the rim. She forgot to take the repair kit. Her shoulders drooped, despite the rain, and stood up again. The road was devoid of traffic. It was one she took when she was on her bike because it ran around the edge of the city, away from traffic and commotion. This evening, she wished she had taken a route through the city. Buses didn’t come this way and she didn’t have the number for any taxi service, and she doubted any would pass by without a passenger. Sighing, she looked at the darkening horizon, and started walking, pushing her bike beside her.
