Not There

Dirty sneakers line the foot of the entryway. A stack of drippy umbrellas and the carpet dusted with tracked-in leaves and pollen… there was once a time when it hadn’t been carpet, but hardwood—easier to sweep. In the foyer, on a lamp table, sits the day’s mail and still damp rolled newspaper bundled with ads and coupons. The rubber band that ties it all up is pink and inviting. Though it is two in the afternoon, no-one has bothered to look at the mail or the newspaper. The living room is dark; the heavy shades are pulled against the weather. The housekeeper brought in fresh flowers despite the weather and snipped the stems with sheers that now rest on the cutting board block. The kitchen is spotless; dull grey light permeates the porcelain sink and Teflon pans patterned with blue cornflowers. The room smells sharply of ammonia and lemon, sterile and clean. There is a dishtowel neatly folded over the refrigerator handle, for convenience sake. The front door opens and shuts abruptly, and the silence is broken only by this.