A mumbled apology of a morning grumbled its way into being, dragged across a sky that was already complaining about the weather despite being slightly responsible for it.
The birds outside were already swirling around almost hiding from the rain, or trying to get rid of it, very difficult to tell. The olive trees seemed like they were more alive than ever with all of the new visitors they had acquired since the rain started to come down.
It was threatening snow, but had already been doing precisely that since last week, it seemed to get bitterly cold but never take the bite. The rigmarole firmly set in swing as the people in the village started to crawl out of their houses to the frosted cars left outside to battle the Castillian winter.
Everything hummed into existence slowly, the aching bones of an already old-before-its-time morning starting to move.
People shuffled by the end of the road, no one really in the mood to talk, far preferring to stand at the bus stop in a game of mutual ignoring until the bus deigned to show up. The shine of a mobile screen giving some light to the grey faces waiting for the single-decker to finally arrive and take them to a destination even less interesting than the one they were currently in.
A coffee would do nicely right now, maybe a quick trip to the bar down the road to slug down something acidic that tastes like uncleaned pipes. Perhaps accompanying it all with some tostas or another local thing before taking on the day.
The tar dripped into the porcelain, crumbs and drops of sugar-stones thrown in for good fun.
Is it Friday yet?
Stories from the Fig Tree 