The Potato Eaters

Around the low oak table, five pairs of hard-worked hands reached towards the centre.
‘Take one more, Cornelia,’ Hendrik urged, his voice hoarse from smoking cheap tobacco. He pushed the largest potato towards his wife. She was pouring hot tea into their cups, the only luxury they could afford for dinner.
There was no trace of poetry in their lives, no grand romances or golden sunsets that weren’t immediately followed by the dread of tomorrow’s labour.
‘Tomorrow, the sun would rise, and the fields would demand our blood all over again,’ Cornelia whispered with a bitter smile, her eyes meeting his. ‘But tonight… tonight, we are together, and this is what matters most.’