Four Hundred and Twenty Eight...

Complete Shit

And time, and time, and writing and then they stopped and then and then and then... George peeled back the covers and found his wife but she was not his wife, she was not. And soon, the minutes, and time, and a spaceship, and...something else, there was always another thing, it sat on the periphery of whatever it was he was supposed to do. Something forgotten, written down but gone and he began to wonder why he needed to write anything down in the first place. Was he forgetting things? What did he forget, would he remember it if he had forgotten it? The stairs, there were twenty of them, and he took them slowly. So slowly as though he were cherishing each and every one, a two story house, made of wood, and nothing else than wooden trees. A minute passed and he was still the same person.

The door bell, always the door bell, he grabbed a book and threw it at the door. It hit the door but fell to the floor, it did not go through. The door was made of mahogany and four inches thick, he would need a large book. He found another book and threw it at the door. The door bell rang again mocking him. There was a voice, from the door, or his head he could not say. He went to the window and tucked the blinds back, peeking to see who was at the door. There was no one, he looked behind him, the TV, that's all just the TV. Someone had come to visit someone on the TV.

Why did no one ever think to visit him? His TV spent much of it's life in the on position. He sat down to watch it but hated the show, he stood back up. He pulled every drawer open, slowly, one by one, admiring the wood paneling and marble counter top. He set his face on the counter to feel the cold surface. Could he hear the ocean in this counter top? Or was that just sea shells. Sea shells, a minute passed, and he was the same person he was two minutes ago. He thought to go outside, get fresh air, that's what mother told him to do.

He had known what he wanted when he woke up that morning. He had known it. What was it now? Where? He searched the cupboards once more, pulling out everything and piling it on the floor. Piece by piece, taking stock of his things. A large kitchen knife. Pancake mix. Almonds. White bread. Spoons. Forks. A cheese grater. Another spoon. Another cheese grater, why? Why two? A bowl, plates, bowl, apples, breaks, teeth, dentistry, health care, politics, money. He had to write this down in the future. Finally, in the pile he found a small box of sugar.

There were footsteps on the stairs, twenty steps, slowly following the other. He looked up and froze. He grabbed the sugar and poured it down the sink, they ate too much sugar, too much sugar, makes you fat, don't get fat, health care, don't smoke, don't drink, don't do drugs. Don't eat sugar. Too much sugar, makes you fat. The sugar congealed in the drops of water at the base of the sink.

There were footsteps, behind him, light, a woman's. He turned, there she was, a woman, his wife, his lover, his enemy, who? When did she arrive?

"Do you want to watch the TV with me?" she said.