The buzz of the refrigerator cuts the silence of television advertising. It stops in the transition of a new sale. Countries claiming representation of an entire continent — one that probably Australia is only capable of if the geography I recall is still the same.
This train of thought is but a mere distraction to the rerun of a national geographic special on the 80’s. The decade of your birth. Each year that closes threatens to leave you behind. Stagnant? Immobile? Caught in too many thoughts to act.
Your mind wanders to the sensation of tracing your fingers down her back. Those slight shivers that rise when you glide through a particular spot. You recall those smiles you secretly shared and how her mouth could do wonders to the electrodes in your psyche.
Was this it? Was this what millions of human beings searched for throughout their insignificant lives? And so you stare back towards the kitchen knowing that she’s there where you left her. There have been times where you’ve caught her sleeping while nursing of one of her favorite fiction books.
You rise from your place by the television and move towards the kitchen.
Her limp form is there by the kitchen counter. Her right arm stretched out as if reaching for one of the drawers. You gently lift her and carry her towards the garage where the trunk of the car is propped open.
The stain by the counter will have to be cleaned.