Board game, cherry pie and bombs. In a house that’s not mine. In the dining room with my mother-in-law, at the table, with dominoes, Bob was there, but didn’t say anything.
The dishwasher was there but the trash compactor was missing. The washing machine was gone but the agitator from the drum was stuck in the drywall. I tried to corkscrew it out but it wouldn’t advance.
I gave up, lest I damage the drywall more than it already was. The little white pieces of gypsum rolled out of the hole and tumbled slowly to the floor. There was a little pile of it on the hardwood. Some dust spiraled up; I waved it out and moved on.
But I was also waiting there, waiting. The cabinets were up to the ceiling and the other cabinets were in the wrong place.
The kitchen was WAY too big. But only to me. To everyone else, it was normal. Normal. Maybe normal to everyone else is messed up to me. Or maybe I’m messed up and everyone is really normal. But then we go into a “what is normal” and “what is real” conversation that doesn’t work while the dog is in an uncomfortable position on my legs.