“Good Morning Linda.”
“Good morning dear.”
“You sleep well?”
Linda nodded sheepishly, her hair still ruffled. She had adopted the position of bed head.
“Good. I made some coffee if you want any,” George quickly walked out of the kitchen, hastily smearing jam onto burnt toast. His jacket tails swayed, his soles clicking against the ground. He circled the living room, throwing up papers from his temporary work station on the coffee table. He rummaged through the printer occupying a space on the couch, trying to find his golden ticket while juggling the breakfast items. Linda yawned, retrieved a mug and plate from the cabinet overhead, and silently poured the wonderful black liquid in. As it reached the top, she stopped and stared at her mug for a moment. She watched the coffee swirl around in tiny, dumb circles before the liquid slowed to a crawl, almost lethargic. She watched the surface settle, the texture became even as the various parts and ingredients found their place and worked themselves in. She was wondering whether she wanted creamer when the sounds of a crash and a curse came from the other room. She sighed and took a single sip of her Black Joe.
Linda found her husband George struggling to grab the jam knife he dropped while holding a dozen papers in one hand and several notebooks in the other, a sleek black business satchel draped over his shoulders, glasses dangerously close to falling off his nose, with burnt, jam covered toast stuffed in his mouth. He smiled weakly as she walked in. She grabbed the knife from the floor and placed the plate under his mouth. He thankfully spat out the toast and shifted the papers around.
“Thanks honey,” he said, still smiling. He readjusted his glasses and grabbed the plate of toast from Linda’s hand. She took another sip of her Black Joe. “So I’m going to leave now. What’s your plan for today?”
Linda shrugged and took another sip of coffee. She still looked asleep, regardless of the caffeine cup she held in her hand. George glanced down at it, noticing the dark complexion.
“Are you going to stay here again?”
“Mhmm.” Another sip.
“Well alright,” George’s voice trailed off. “Rest is good. Maybe get some more sleep ok? I’ll see you later.” He leaned in, kissed his wife, and checked his watch before bolting out the front door. He walked up to his car, placed the toast plate on the roof before trying the driver’s door. Locked. George quickly searched his various pockets with his free hand before realizing he made a horrible error in the world of on time, suit and tie business; he forgot his car keys. He quickly shed off his work responsibilities, dropping satchel, papers, and professionalism before running back into the house. He first checked the designated key bowl that no one ever used but, surprisingly, didn’t find his keys. He ran over to his work station to search for the pesky noise makers, relocating pens and graphs, quarterly reports and intern sheets.
“Linda, have you seen my keys?” He checked behind the printer, under the table, in the sides of the couch. Nothing. He glanced up toward the kitchen and ran over, wondering if he left them next to the mayo like he sometimes did after a late night snack. He tore open the fridge and peered in. No immediate signs of metal. He pushed aside milk cartons, wheels of cheese, left over salad, and sausage links, all waiting to be used. He moved onto the freezer, but the tundra consisted entirely of ice cubes, small packs of peas, a two month old tub of ice cream, and veteran ice packs. So George decided to check their room.
“Honey?” He called as he walked out of the kitchen, past the living room, and into the small hall. Three doors lived in that small hallway, each one containing another room. George opened the right door and walked into his room. It was still fairly dark, the light from dawn starting to peep through the blinds to wake up the rest of the world. He figured his wife to be sleeping again, so he tip toed over to his night stand with a speed that could qualify him for the Olympics. He groped the surface of the table, hoping his keys would jump into his hand but no luck.
“Sorry honey,” he whispered before turning on his lamp. The dull, dumb light filled the space, illuminating his empty bed-side table, the walls housing memories of wonderful bygone times, and their closet. He began rummaging through his various unused pants when it dawned on him that his wife wasn’t in bed.
George turned around. Linda was not, in fact, in the bed. The sheets in total confusion, an awkward jambalaya of clean cloth and pillows, gave the obvious indication that whoever slept there never intended to go back again.
“Linda?” George called out nervously. There was always that terrifying moment when someone else in the house vanishes into thin air. It can put people into worse mind sets. George backed out of the room and exited back into the hall. He decided to knock on the second door, door number two, the door at the end of the cramped hall.
“Linda?”
He waited five or so seconds in intense anticipation. He already pictured sneaky muggers holding his wife by gun-point in the bathroom, keeping her quiet until he opened the door. So in a moment of misplaced bravery and stupidity, George quickly opened the door. All he saw was the empty bathroom, the sink, toilet, and shower all the isolated members of this closed room.
He turned his head and looked toward the last unopened door, the final uninvestigated space. The door opposite Linda and George’s master.
He grabbed the handle, but didn’t turn the door. He waited a second, his fingers pressed gingerly to the metal. It heated up in his hand as his tight grip reinforced itself. He took a sharp breath. Not for robbers or muggers, criminals extraordinaire or evil creatures set on nothing but death pure and simple. He expected something a lot more real. So he exhaled and turned the door.
“Linda?”
The door creaked open, unused in so long. It opened inward to a dark room, the hall light filling in and revealing tiny details. The soft green rug. The yellow wallpaper, chunks peeling off and fading away while mural clowns smiled at whoever watched. The glow in the dark stars glued to the ceiling, only emitting a dim neon green from minimal light interaction. The dusty Legos that sat stacked in the corner next to a box full of stuffed animals. The tiny twin bed. Linda stood in the centre of the room, facing the small mattress. It was race car themed.
“I’m in here George,” she whispered faintly, raising the mug to her mouth. She didn’t drink it though. She just sort of smelled it for a little bit, enjoying that little moment. She sighed and took a sip.
George looked around and walked over to his wife, but slowly. With each step, he gazed around him, like a child revisiting a lost world they once occupied. The coloring books scattered in a whimsical manner, crayons still waiting for someone to pick them up and finish the projects they started. A closet full of tiny collared shirts and pants, small sneakers and sandals neatly placed along the floor. The happy window, blinds not down, staring into the backyard, to where the old swing set used to stand. The blue racecar bed with a flaming red 42 painted on the side, with matching sheets and pillows. The giant hole in the ceiling that existed right above the head of the bed. George could see the Christmas decorations from there.
He approached his wife but suddenly hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. He wanted to comfort her, tell her something beautiful and reassuring, something funny and distracting, anything to lead her away from this. Instead, Linda turned her head slightly and recognized he was there.
“What were you looking for George?” She sniffed and rubbed her nose. George simply shook his head and hugged his wife instead, taking a minute or so of silence as the two watched the room. The grey light outside creped through the window and pooled onto the floor.
“I think I’m going to stay here today,” George said arbitrarily, more to himself than his wife. Both stood so still and deep in personal thought, any other intervening party would think they were paralyzed. Linda solemnly took another sip of her Black Joe, the waves of residual heat no longer in the air. It was now just Warm Joe.
“What time is it George?”
He raised his right hand and looked at his watch. It just turned seven.
“It’s seven dear.”
Linda exhaled slowly and took another quick drink of coffee. She raised her hand to George’s and squeezed it briefly and with as much energy as she could muster.
“Happy birthday George.” Sniffle.
“Ya. Happy birthday Junior.”