Man In The Kitchen (Part I)
Jumping out of bed, running down the stairs, he followed the scent emanating from the coffee maker. He loved the smell, hated the taste, but he knew it meant she was finally home from her trip. Running to the kitchen, excited at the prospect of seeing his wife for the first time in more than six months, he smiled broadly.
The kitchen gleamed clean. The random small blue tiles intermixed with the prominent white ones of the backsplash were reminiscent of the clean waters of the Caribbean. He was reminded of her love for the blue waters and white sands, “That’s what we’ll do – we’ll sail to Bermuda,” he knew she would love the idea. The dog stretched in the corner, from its bed in the sun, looked at him suspiciously. “C’mere boy,” he patted his thighs. The dog popped up to say hello, stretching again on its master’s form.
Propping the door open with one cocked elbow he held the glass with the hand of the same arm and poured himself some orange juice. He paused, listening. Confused. The house was too quiet.