Bread

It appears that it has been quite some time since I last wrote any fiction. Although I suppose that whole inane post regarding the love between chickens and cows and their offspring could be considered a strange form of fiction. Any way, I’ve decided that I’m going to use the LunaNina words as inspiration. Each week^[1] I’ll pick one of her words and maybe write something inspired by it. This week Bread

John watched the sun rise. A casual observer may have wondered why he was standing, leaning might be more accurate, against that particular building so early in the morning. However, it isn’t likely that any would have thought to question him. For one reason there was no one around to wonder what he was doing, but that wasn’t the real reason. The simple fact was that no one ever questioned John.

And not because he was intimidating. He inspired no fear. Strangers would ask him directions; he always wore a watch because so many people troubled him for the time. He had a trustworthy face.

No one ever questioned John because no matter what he was doing people accepted it. Instinctively. In the furthest, deepest darkest corners of their mind they might have speculated on his reasons, but in an idle, untroubled fashion. Put simply what ever John did or did not do was of no concern to anyone. He could be found wandering about in the middle of the night with blood on his clothes and still the only question he would receive would concern the weather, or the best street to take in.

Sometimes this bothered John. More often than not however it worked in his favour. Like now. Leaning against the wall, waiting, patience embodied.

He waited as the sky began to lighten and the stars faded gradually from view. The moon remained, pale against the lightening sky, as the sun rose higher. Until finally it was time. The man in his suit arrived and the shutters on the bank went up. A faint smile crossed John’s face as he left his supporting wall and crossed the road.

The manager smiled as he approached, John nodded in return and entered the building, the manager kindly holding open the door. As it was still an hour until opening time the door was shut after John’s entrance. Inside the official began his morning routine, paying no real attention as John headed towards the safe.

The inner sanctum of the bank.

John reached out a hand, no fuss, and picked up some money. Not a lot, but enough for a comfortable day. For the barest second his hand clenched about it, a furrow appearing on his brow, and then, without even a sigh of regret he replaced the cash and headed back out the way he had come. Once more the manager held the door open for him.

Less than thirty minutes later and John was home. His mother didn’t look up from making the breakfast as he slipped inside.
“Got the morning bread,” he said, leaving it on the table.
“That’s nice dear,” she replied, absently, after all, this was John’s morning routine.