The man sat in the darkened kitchen, the tick of the clock showing 3 a.m. upstairs his family slept, his children in their beds, his wife finally able to settle, now in the empty bed after his insomniac tossing and turnings. Only the week orange light of the cooker hood illuminated the scene. The kitchen was clean but homely, last night’s washing up stood drying on the draining rack, a lunch box stood empty, waiting to be packed in the morning, crayon drawings stuck with magnets to the fridge, a fine pencil one was framed showing the progress of children’s art. Domestic bliss.
And yet, he could not sleep. So now he sat, listening to the quiet city, carefully spooning out Nutella from the jar.