Topophilia

His tool box was a rusted chrome, but he lifted it with ease. It would make most men jealous, the way he was loading the objects around him in his van with haste like he was stocking pillows. It might look easy to you, but a man still needs to hydrate. Taking a small break and a drink, something happens. For the first time since he moved in several months ago, the sound of a door catches his attention.

She was tall, slender, and sad. She would turn his head any day, if it weren't for the dark ring around her left eye, and the swelling, and the limp. But that damn sadness. That’s what wrenched at his heart most. Figuring out her age would be pointless since the obvious stress could have aged her from twenty, thirty or even fifty. He never knew her name. Hell, no one knows anyone in this cul de sac. They all keep to themselves. She stumbled like her high heel snapped off. For her calm consideration, it didn’t, but the man still had eyes on her. It could have been the first time she ever noticed him too. The way she looked at him - does anyone smile? Before he knew it, her car was almost half way down the block.

It was always ten at night, when her husband would finally leave the couch, just to plant himself back down, this time in the kitchen, so she knew he was there. If walls could talk, they would tell tales for hours. In this case, they would tell you of their fifteen year long marriage, her miscarriage, his consistent job loss and violent attacks. If you're good, they might even tell you he likes it.

“I've been waiting hours for you to come home, and make this goddamn food.” His voice slurred since his nine am drink.

She leaned facing the stove. Her heart sinking into her stomach to be digested with the one snack she had today. Though just a snack, it was more then she has had in a while, and this made her feel sick.

“Put it in the oven, take it out, and give it to me. Simple as that.”

His words bubbled in her ears where she could feel her brain swelling. Her own conscience promising that madness will save her from this vessel that may burst at any moment.

“Give me the food!” He yelled.

She wanted to say something. Something so easy as, almost dear, or one more minute sweety, or how about I will fucking kill you if you ever talk to me like that again! But her throat puffed up from the inside. It’s like her body is trying to kill her while he sits in his chair and laughs.

It was her favorite plate. The one with the baby ducks singing so happily. That’s the one he chose to throw and shatter it into millions of tiny pieces. They scatter all over the stove top and floor.

“Fucking bitch!” His eyes started to droop.

“FUCKING BITCH!” His screams become childlike.

Like the child she was robbed of. Maybe by him, or by her stressed and spiteful body. He makes flatulent noises while sticking his tongue at her. That dirty kitchen knife in the sink looks so comforting. For him, or her. Or both. Finally facing him, he stops.

“Oh shit! What happened to your fucking eye!?” His laugh crawled under her skin like a grown man sliding under her sheets as a young girl.

He obnoxiously clears his throat and spits it across the kitchen floor. She placed her hand over her heart for only a second, to feel her pulse going at horse power speed. Neither of them realized when his saliva hit the floor, it just missed the tip of a strangers boot. The husband now notices the random figure of a man in black.

“WOH! Who are you!” He stopped slurring over his words.

His question became wasted sound vibrations, lost out in the void.

“I said who the fuck are you?!” His voice louder.

Her eyes that once felt so tired and desperate to close and find rest, were now as wide as ever as her heart kept racing. Her husband, the great defender of the home, finally stands up, and pounds his fist on the table. His size appears intimidating, even towering over the intruder. Unfortunately for him, this anomaly in the shadows is not afraid. He never flinches. He never moves. The man, if he even is a man at all, just stands still. The woman squints but can’t seem to figure out a face.

“Get out of my house!” The husband screamed. Almost like a child again.

“I said get the fuck out of my house!” The man actually moved.

Under the lamps in the kitchen which gave the room a puke yellow. He caught a glimpse of the woman’s face when she realized who he was. He moved in fast. Her heartbeat could match his footsteps. A stone breaks open a mountain.

It takes the fumes of hot coffee to fill the surrounding area of the diner with the smell of delicious vanilla. The waitress served the cup with a small slice of pie. She walked past the owner, who sat near the door waiting for customers to enter. In his head, begging them. The waitress walks past several empty booths to the man. He thanks her, but never looks up. The man does nothing. Police sirens run across the window, speeding to their destination. In his mind's eye, frames of the husband's face. His skull is split in threes. His right eye rests wet by his chubby stretched out nose. That mystery sticking out his nostrils could be his brain. Let the cops and EMS deal with it, he thought. It’s just part of the random acts of life. Like the heat of this coffee. It’s not fate that it’s hot. It was heated up. It’s just facts. Fate is different from facts, and facts should be of no surprise.

THE

END.