Small

Sheila had never seen her life amounting to anything. She envisaged
more week-ends of endless, and unresolvable discussions with friends
(drink-induced criticims of society, politics and the human state).
Regular traditions of friendly bonding allowing for strong chattering,
and sometimes a heated rage, when arguing the same thoughts in
different vocabulary. In the early hours of the morning, she would be
filled with the motivation of ten thousand armies to change it all and
stand for her beliefs. But by the time she arose the next day, the
power of resolute arguments would fade.

And she would arise on Sunday, feeling invigorated and closer to those
friends she had invited round the night before to denograte their
political stance, and think of breakfast. She would invest as much
passion as the night before on the decision whether to have eggs on
toast or cereal. And in that way, Sheila would think that her life,
priorities and views alike, would have little ground-breaking
influences on other people's lives.

This particular Sunday, she peeled herself from the clutches of Mark
and moved, heavy-headed to the kitchen. By this point, she had decided
on eggs, and no debate could sway her otherwise. And after ten minutes
of egg-on-toast-wafting, Mark joined her and amongst empty bottles of
wine and full ashtrays, they created their space, devouring their food
in quiet communion.

Hours passed in pyjamas watching dated television films. They
eventually ventured out to walk in the park where the sun gesticulated
behind stubborn cloud and the wind flirted with their hair and
whispered in their ears. Shelia decided to tell Mark that she loved him
and their time together. They held themselves in the green wasted land
and watched planes disappear into the blanket cloud and enjoyed their
smallness.