At 11:47 p.m the front door latch squeaks then clicks open with an explosive sound. Dad is home from working the evening shift. I have an early morning class the next day and should have been asleep by the time he came home. I'd come home only two hours before and wanted to get caught up on some online socializing.
Having grown up in this small, one-story bungalow the symphonies of the floorboards are quite familiar to me. Each member of the household has a distinctive pattern; I can use these to track their routines. I doubt as much attention is paid to my comings and goings. Dad has a heavy step, made even more so tonight as a bad flu is dragging at his feet.
Boots are discharged, door is re-latched with a thunderous clang (it's an old door, throwing the latch invloves some elbow grease), coat is thrown over the back of a chair and he comes down the hallway. He sees my light is still on, whispering through the crack under my door. He greets me, his eldest, with a sniffle. The light in the kitchen is now on and I choose this time to get some sleep. I've made the mistake to staying up through Dad's nightly routine and have no desire to lose sleep this time. Kitchen, shower, kitchen, bedroom; his heavy treads loop around the small house, resounding in the hardwood floors.
Laying aside my book, I let the sound of the shower lull me to sleep, and as I drift off I hear the squeak-thunk of the front door. Mom's home. It's midnight, in six hours and twenty minutes I have to be up again. So I sleep, I rarely dream.
The sound of velcro wakes me, it's quarter to five in the morning. I hate waking up before my alarm clock goes off - it makes me feel cheated. My nest of blankets immediately starts to overheat and I am uncomfortable. The ragged lace egde of my pyjama top has no doubt left plently of red lashes across my chest. The kitchen light is on again, the sound of velcro means Dad is up checking is blood pressure, his most recent fixation. Despite being arguably beneficial to his health, his method leaves me wondering whether he might be increasing his own blood pressure by stressing over it at five in the morning. Beep, then buzz, then hum. In twenty minutes my alarm goes off, but it's pointless.
Friday's a good day, so I don't let the rough start get to me. But things get strange rather quickly. There's a foreign creature in the kitchen. I percieve it through the corner of my eye as I head for the bathroom. In the dim light I spy it's lilac-coloured bathrobe which hangs askew, the belt dragging on the floor. Be-socked feet and the cuffs of sweat pants peek out from under the open fridge door. In the arctic glow of the fridge light, I see a knitted toque* perched on it's head.
By the time I quit the bathroom - all squeaky clean and dressed - the kitchen is devoid of life once again. An auto repair manual is open on the table next to the blood-pressure cuff. On the counter, half a mango sits abandonned and the cutting board is slick with golden slime.
Shaking my head as I leave for the day, I think of how everyone must have those strange days. When I claim a free coffee after class and win another free coffee with it, I know this to be true.
Sometimes it's just another day , but short stories can come at any moment.
* For my non-toque-wearing readers: pronounced tooque; Canadian fashion icon and climate-driven necessity. Also knows as a knitted winter hat (often has a pompom or other such adornment but sadly not in this case) or a stocking cap.
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