Autumn came early that year, but Steven didn’t notice.
He didn’t see the leaves change colour, or feel the slight chill as the sun set and evening descended.
He didn’t have time for the seasons, running from one meeting to the next, waking each day in a different city, in hotels that differed only by the colour of their bedspreads or the paintings on the walls.
Winter came and went, but he never felt the cold. The air-conditioned interiors of his hotel room kept winter on the outside, and while the blizzard raged, he drank vintage wine and ate fine seafood at his table for one, before going back to his room to prepare for the next day’s meetings.
Then one evening, as he lay on his bed, he felt his chest tighten, and a searing pain shot through his left arm. He managed to raise the alarm on his gold-plated mobile but had no memories of what happened next.
He woke up in a hospital bed and on his bedside table was a magnificent bouquet of daffodils and a card from the hotel that read, “Get well soon.”
It must be Spring, he thought.
Well, I’m back from my trip to Switzerland and my entry to Sunday Photo Fiction is a day later than usual. It’s nice to settle back into my morning writing routine although while I was away I wrote every day, in hotel rooms, in the car and in crowded theatres. Managing to write just about anywhere is a personal victory.