The door fell open on one twist of the knob, unlocked. Monique pocketed her lock kit and swallowed her disappointment. She almost turned back, disgusted at being able to enter without a challenge. The home itself repulsed her. Someone had recreated the pages of a department store sale flyer. All about were cheaply made pressed board furnishings, generic paintings and posters, and lower-end electronic equipment from oddball companies. The air smelled of disinfectant. She was not surprised to find her fingertips could locate no dust.
A note on the dining room table informed her that “dinner is in the fridge” and the author did not intend to come home. In case the intended reader did not understand the seriousness, several exclamation points were there to advise.
Monique imagined the food that must await the reader. She drifted to the fridge, thinking of macaroni and cheese from a boxed mix with a side of meatloaf, green beans baked right in. The foil-topped platter, however, revealed a savory smelling salmon. A modest wine of local vintage chilled beside it. Such finery should not be wasted on the loose ends that plagued her employer’s empire.
She pulled the salmon and wine out and devoured them without ceremony or utensils, plucking at the fish with her fingers, gulping the wine from the bottle. She enjoyed her feast without fear or shame and finished by tossing the remains into the tidy garbage can with a bank-shot that made the bottle echo. She washed her hands and rubbed them with sanitizer.
A heavy car door slammed in the driveway. The footsteps that followed bored into the ground like hammers. The front door flew open, rattling the chintzy photos that lined the walls. A throaty voice howled, “Sugar!”
Monique shot a puzzled look at the sugar jar.
A metal crash resounded from the laundry and pantry area near the rear of the unit. The shouter continued, “This is it! I’m going to do what I should have done long ago!”
The front door whiffed back into place, put to final rest with another shove or kick.
“This time, I plan to kill you, woman!…What’s this?”
Monique leaned back against the sink, eyeing the fine selection of kitchen knives. A man charged past her and seized the note on the table. The rending of paper was punctuated by the flight of a chair that brought down the flimsy entertainment center with a mighty groan and crackle. Monique considered the tenderizing mallet. Poetic but slow. Less predictable than the butcher knife.
The man stomped over to the phone and ripped it away from the wall, hurling it towards the garage access door. It impacted the tiles at the threshold, showering bits of plastic and circuit board. Panting, he heaved himself into the doorway of the kitchen. His eyes went wide in the moment before a precise blow to his face threw him back into the dining room and out of his frenzy and all touch with perception.
