Kelly Hanken
“Tell Me What It Means”
It was there when he came home. Simple, unassuming, sitting on the counter like it had been there all along. It was so inconspicuous that at first, he didn’t even realize it was there. He sorted through the mail, made several phone calls, took out the trash and began making dinner before he noticed it.
As the oven-cooked deep dish pizza baked, he took the object in from all sides. Above, from every angle, at countertop-level – and tried to make sense of it. There was no previous mention of it in any conversation, just distant looks and irritatingly expectant fingertaps on the tabletop.
Like so many things in his life, it came as a surprise. Surprised that he lived through high school, surprised to wake up in the morning after a heavy night of alcohol and pills, surprised to see someone recognize him on campus – all surprises like this one. All more pleasant than this one.
He went to watch TV while the pizza cooked but his eyes would stray back to the thing on the counter. It needed no explanation – he wasn’t stupid – but it still confused him in a strange, intolerable way.
When the oven timer went off, he fetched his pizza and let it cool, watched some more Cartoon Network and continued to glance over to the counter. He finally got up, took his slices of pizza, and sat at the counter. He stared at the key and ate alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment