He was still upstairs when the small hand on the oven ticked passed 8. She gazed out the kitchen window, through quivering branches to the grey and distant hills. One hand gripped the thin plastic stick inside her coat pocket, her thumb caressing its flat surface.
Just as she placed his coffee beside buttered toast and scrambled eggs, he grunted. His boots creaked across the bare hallway. Grunt. The boots fell like rucksacks down the stairs. Another grunt. The boots trod heavily beside the smouldering fireplace. She hopped back to her tea on the counter in time to receive the fourth and final grunt as he reached passed her to the kitchen table. He did not notice the unusually deep glow in her cheeks.
Her finger traced the rim of her mug while she watched him alternately shovel and sip his meal. Her mouth cautiously opened and and silently shut in pace with each bite. When the eggs were nearly gone her voice ventured out.
"Honey?"
Grunt.
"How... um..."
"Hours got cut," he gristled. "Was out with the guys."
She slid her hand halfway out her pocket, peeked into her palm, and - at the blare of a horn - tucked it back in.
"That's Jimmy," he murmured as he chewed the final mouthful. "We're going back out to the mines. Have a few leads."
"Don't you worry babe," he tossed over his shoulder, "I'll scrape together enough for the two of us." He grabbed his coat on the way out the door.
After a truck door slammed, she exhaled, stood up, tossed the stick in the trash bin, and picked up the phone. Her hand now quivered like the branches outside.
"Hi hun... no, but you were right. Can you take me there and back today? I don't want to do this alone."
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