He is listening to the radio as I enter his room with a tray of breakfast - two slices of toast, butter, and a glass of milk because he wouldn't take anything else. The annoyingly jovial breakfast show broadcasters are talking about some exotic holiday destinations. I doubt that he understands any word, but I know he really enjoys the sound the device makes. His eyes wander across the room, dark since the curtain hasn't been opened yet. Finally he acknowledges my presence and I smile at him.
"Good morning, Mr Evans," I say, putting the tray on a small table across where he's sitting. "Hungry yet? Fresh milk today, just the way you like it. And why is it so dark here?" I open the curtain and he squints.
I give him an apologetic look, and he takes his milk. He takes a sip, and then puts the glass back down without a word. I sigh.
"Good morning, Mr Evans," I say, putting the tray on a small table across where he's sitting. "Hungry yet? Fresh milk today, just the way you like it. And why is it so dark here?" I open the curtain and he squints.
I give him an apologetic look, and he takes his milk. He takes a sip, and then puts the glass back down without a word. I sigh.
