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.