Her pan

The weekend has finally come. It’s been a long week. “I haven’t had a proper meal this week”, she thought to herself. Now when she think about it, her life has been a series of busy days, the second she opens her eyes, she rush into the day, full of hours and hours of sitting in front of the PC, listening to never ending requests. But today is different. Weekends are different. Curtains are tightly closed. Phone is switched off. No watch or clock in the room. All these measures to detach herself from the world. Today is her day. There is no obligations.
She slowly wakes up. Roll in the bed, staring at the thin light coming from the curtain. She can’t make up the time. She gets up from the bed, take a long, warm shower, and read in the tub. The place smells of lavender and citrus fruit. As she leaves, she dresses up in a light, cotton white dress. Spray a lime blossom cologne. Reminding her of the lime tree groove her grandmother owns. Walking there in the early summer, when they’re spreading their petals.

She goes into the kitchen, the curtains there are wide open, washing the place with light. She grabs a pan. A pink, ceramic pan she bought last year, when she decided that every weekend she’ll make herself pancake. A tower of pancake, peanut butter spread between each piece, drizzled with honey.

The pan she bought wasn’t a normal pan. It held hope. To her, living in a foreign city, alone, away from her family, robbed her the support she needed. However, as small and as simple as a pan, getting it with the intension that no matter how hard the week might be, a weekend will come, where she will treat herself.


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