He rested his elbows on the countertop and regretted it instantly. It was sticky. Honey left over from a hasty cup of tea made by the roommate earlier.
The clock above the tiny kitchen’s window read 1:24. One twenty-four in the p.m. There wasn’t much of a justification for waking up so late any more. He’d gone to bed the night before early. Feeling tired and complacent.
“I love you and goodnight,” the roommate had said.
“Me too,” he’d said.
The roommate usually stayed up late. Talking on the phone, talking to the television, talking to the characters in whatever book she was reading.
She was gone when he got up. He looked at her side of the bed. It was perfectly made. He made sure of her absence, checking each room and all four closets in turn before pulling a stool up to the counter.
This morning was different, slightly. He knew this right away. He attempted to contemplate his day and failed. Again. Failure.
His heart beat quickly, like he’d had too much coffee, but his brain felt stagnant and refused to catch up. He loosened the necktie and unbuttoned the top button of the oxford he’d taken to donning in a semblance and mockery of professionalism.
“Christ,” he said out loud. “Christ on a cracker.”
Saying this made him smile and feel a little better. Alone or not, he liked saying silly things to ease tension. The roommate never got annoyed. This, however, annoyed her.
The weather outside was awful. It was already raining buckets. He decided it must be under 40 degrees and also that he wasn’t going to leave the house today. He might explore the garden, but that was enough.
Technically, but only technically, he was supposed to be going out to find a job today.
“Will you please look for a job tomorrow?” the roommate had asked.
“I hope so,” he’d said, a little too enthusiastically, raising the last syllable as he spoke.
Hoping so, he now reasoned, did not amount to a promise. That much was certain.
He and the roommate had argued the night before. It was the same topic of argument as usual. He hadn’t worked for three months. Exploring did not count as a gainful pursuit at this time. Nor did concocting. He was being slothful, yes similar to the slowest sloth, and not really using his brilliant creativity.
Thinking of this made him laugh. It was inappropriate, but made him feel better. Sloths, he thought, are very strange animals.
“Christ on a cracker.”
He slid open the kitchen door and stepped out onto the veranda. He regretted the fact that is was impossible to lick ones’ elbows. His were sweet at the moment and he needed sugar for his stubborn brain.
He turned and shut the door, seeing his reflection in the glass. He saw his reflection, handsome he’d been told, and decided he looked awful. He had a scraggly beard that extended haphazardly down his neck. His best shirt was stained and wrinkled. His eyes had bags from too much sleep.
“Obviously you two didn’t get the memo that sleep is good for you,” he told them.
He laughed at the joke. He knew he was starving for some sort of social contact.
“That will have to wait,” he thought.
He looked at the potted plants under the tin roofed patio. They looked unhappy despite all the water falling from the sky onto the garden just ten feet away. The tin roof tittered at their thirst, rain bouncing off its thin hull.
“Ah, yes,” he said, “you’d like some water, that can be arranged.”
It was his job to water the plants. The list on the fridge inside said so in bold letters. He clapped his hands and a notched stick fell from the sealing on a hinge. It set off a series counter-weights, levies, small canals, and old containers filled to the brim, watering the plants.
The runoff was negligible, he noted.
He’d left his job at the company for two very different reasons. He despised his boss, and, he wanted to be an inventor. An inventor of glorious inventions.
The roommate had been wary of this decision.
“How did you decide this in a day?” She had asked.
“Inventing is a noble pursuit, tantamount to the dreams of our forefathers,” he had said.
She’d told him that she wasn’t sure how it was help to pay the bills.
“I’ll invent a way to do that,” he’d responded.
“Good luck,” she’s said.
Really she was supportive, in the beginning at least. The truth was, most of his inventions to date helped him to avoid really doing chores around the house. Avoiding work, in other words. Lately she had not been so understanding. She’d taken to sliding job clippings from the paper under the bathroom door while he sat on the toilet then pretending to not know what he was talking about when he confronted her with them after his business.
“Must have been someone else, wasn’t me,” she always said.
wow! i didn't know you wrote fiction. brave sharing it too. i want to know what happens. :)
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