Tomorrow is Another Day, by Nathalie Hildegarde Liege

“Tomorrow is another day, but here we are!” he shouted at his mate. His arms set his body’s rhythm. His hair bounced like a soft stroke to both shoulders. “Do you have to tell me the truth?” he added in a calmer voice, his chin down, his forehead heavy, his neck still and his throat dry.

Simon and his mate were walking their way back to the home they had shared for more than a year. They were looking ahead, trying to make plans for that pleasant home. But could the issues between them only be solved by the truth? 

Simon’s dry throat returned him to his senses. He forgot what were the questions in their plans. He was very keen to recall the tiny paragraph he read in his latest National Geographic about cheese fix. His fridge stored the best choices of calming caso-morphins. He didn’t care what his mate had said last Thursday about his fix after he ate a whole soft fat Camembert in five minutes. Not such a big deal as a full 500 gram tin of ice cream licked in half an hour before a TV screen. This was the act of terror he remembered mentioned in his teens by the guilty man himself, who at daytime was the most respected teacher in the playground at school.

Simon’s mate was behind. Would he choose silence after a crude attempt to bring truth to the situation?  He tried to reassure him with good news: “You are about to have a comfortable night. You should be pleased I got new mattresses today for our beds.”

The time had come for his mate to make his voice heard again. He cried out:  “Would you listen? You walk too fast. Would you please slow down? I need to breath in deep! I can’t tell you the truth at the pace we go.”

He fixed his eyes on an unknown but also fast-paced passer-by.  Simon and he both tuned their pace to a steadier mode.  “Now that you pay attention to my opinions,`’ said his mate,  “are we going to define the rules? The truth goes alongside rules, does it not? We can’t keep on pretending. We have no clear rules, and you don’t seem to care so much as I do.”

“What are you talking about? “ Simon said.

“You once again bought something without asking me first!  Mattresses! Your spontaneity isn’t my freedom. That’s what I had to say! Will you accept any rules?  You can’t just act the way you eat cheese!  Stop and think! Man… question your right to decide for others!  Shall I use magnets on the fridge for my written- down rules, to break your unrehearsed plays? You trespass on my intimate territories! Grow up! Accept some rules in our life together. Only then will you be able to share properly and make me happy with what you wish I am, or have if I agreed it, or reckon you must have yourself.”

“That’s an unfair statement, mate!’ Simon muttered.  “Let me sleep on it”