Things Displaced

word count:666





         I woke up this morning feeling deeply refreshed and alert. I point this out as I don't usually recover well from the effects of liquor. I called out to my wife, Robin, but she didn't answer me. Probably out buying things for her weekly book group, I thought to myself. They met every Wednesday and I rarely stuck around to listen to those old crones chatter about romance novels.

         There was no coffee in the pot and I grumbled while I prepared a fresh brew. There used to be a time when Robin not only made the coffee, but also poured me a cup and brought it to me in bed. I'm surprised I remember this; the last time must have been ten years ago. We still loved each other then.

         There was a trail of red droplets ending at the cellar door. What looked like raspberry jam was smeared all over the door and its knob. I cursed at my wife for being so sloppy. How could she make such a mess and not clean it up? I poured my bitter coffee and stomped out of the kitchen.

         As I walked through the dining room I was stopped by the presence of the butcher cleaver resting on the table. Damn you, Robin. Put the damned cutlery back where you found it. I picked up the knife with every intention of putting it back in the kitchen drawer, but realized it was dirty. Robin must have been cutting up some kind of roast or other form of beef. I found this odd, because she was a vegetarian, however it was not out of the realm of possibilities she would serve some red meat up for one of her hag friends. I personally thought that at least one of them must feast on small children.

         Another thought struck me as funny. I was missing a chair from the dining set. My house is not big so I was immediately aware that it was not in any of the living areas. I would have to check the basement later. As it was, I needed to get online and check my emails.

         When I sat at my computer, I noticed a page was missing out of the desk calendar. I looked around and spotted the missing day in the trash can. It was crumbled up and covered in that jam. How did that get here? I flattened it out as best I could and stuck it on top of Thursday's page. The daily quote for Wednesday stuck out at me like an accusing finger.

Things do not happen.

Things are made to happen.

John F. Kennedy

         I shook off the feeling of guilt and decided to search for the chair. I was forced to endure the sticky handle as I turned it to enter the basement. A strong odor assailed my nostrils and I swore to myself I would clean and disinfect the cellar.

         I found the chair. It was covered in red, which is probably why none of my wife's book club sat in it. All three of them just lounged on the dusty floor, staring at their stupid books. The summer heat was stifling down there and I couldn't imagine why they wanted to meet in the basement. None of them spoke to me as I took the chair upstairs and outside to spray it off with the hose. They didn't even blink.

         It wasn't like Robin to be such a bad hostess and leave the group alone. I would have to talk with her. There was no way I was going to entertain her friends. I hated their guts. I don't even know how I tolerate Robin. As I sprayed the chair, flies buzzed all around my back porch. It wouldn't be the first time something died under the old wooden structure.

         I kept grumbling to myself. Robin better get home soon. I would not babysit the bagladies. Not a chance. Where the hell is my wife?