“Good God,” he said. The man who was not young stared down at the table. The table stood with a limp in the middle of the small kitchen. “I think my life has changed today.”
The man’s voice was heard by the toaster in the corner on the counter-top and the dirty, dish-laden sink was also eavesdropping. Presently the room seemed to lean in towards the man as if eager to learn more. Sunlight glowed off the white cupboards and drawers. It was morning.
The man’s eyes were wide beneath their bushy white roofs called eyebrows. The eyes were divided by a singular trunk of a nose which divided the man’s face. His lips were parted slightly, failing to cover buck teeth, browned in his saliva-perforated mouth. Below was a weak chin. Two ears stapled to the sides of the man’s head happily twitched a little in his excitement. The man’s life may have changed.
After some minutes the man got to his feet. His thin, over-practised legs trembled like a tree about to be put to the axe. The man’s brown cane shook slightly under his clamping grip. He left the chair untucked from the table and deserted the crumbs dispersed along his plate. The glass of milk was empty.
He walked from the kitchen. In his stride was purpose, defiance, a will to get something done and done now like the old days. His eyes were hard and reedy. He didn’t slow as he passed the living room. He turned his back to the entrance hall and front door. The man continued to the other side of the house and paused long enough at the back door to clasp its knob. The old man stepped out of the house and into his back yard.
It was a clumsy space. Junk littered the square of wild-looking grass. If there were treasure there it lay somewhere buried by nature, and it would be rusty. The grand-kids used to like playing around the miscellaneous playground but now they were grown. Their children were too young yet for this dangerous battlefield or this haunted park or this Olympic-worthy obstacle course. The man feared that by the time his great-grandchildren came of age he would be dead.
The man stayed on the step. It was raised like a podium above the messy grass. He stayed there maybe to catch his breath or maybe to enjoy the lawn. I should clean the place up, he thought, make it habitual again. How easy was it to break an ankle in some dense hole? Very easy. Not safe at all. He would have to change that. Tomorrow afternoon seemed a good time.
With that decided the man turned back into the house. He crept back through the living room, not heeding the picture frames on the wall or placed on the shelves around the tv. He made his way to the kitchen, ignoring the entrance hall. Then he sat down to eat his breakfast. The toast was ready, he could smell it. The butter was melted to just the right spot in the middle of the top piece. The glass of milk was pure and full. It was a sunny morning.
The man sat down to eat his breakfast. It smelled very good. He reflected that he ate this same toast with butter and drank from the same brand of milk every morning. He would need to change that. Starting tomorrow morning, he would eat something different. That seemed a good time.
For now though the man picked up the glass and brought it to his mouth. It of course was empty.
The man’s eyes widened in astonishment, his bushy brows knitted above the orbs. His mouth kept slightly open ready to drink what was not there. His ears involuntarily and painfully twitched in his surprise. He looked down, and there was no toast on the table. An empty plate with crumbs. Who knows how long it’s been that way.
“Good God,” the old man said. “I think my life has changed today.”
The Compendium 