Kitchen Table – A Short
John walked into the kitchen, turned to toss his keys onto the table and stared. He couldn’t help it. Lying there in the center of the table were his keys. The very same keys he held in his hand. He looked long at the keys on the table. They had the same bottle opener for a key ring. There was even the same 49er key his five year old niece had given him for his birthday. He looked down at the keys in his hand, rolled them in his fingers. They were real. He reached out with his other hand and touched the keys on the table. They chinked when he touched them. They too were real. He picked them up and held both sets, one in each hand and there was no way to tell them apart. He turned and carrying both key rings walked back to the front of the house, looking as he went. Everything looked as it should, and there his car sat where he had just parked it. Or did it? Had he ran part of the wheel onto the lawn? He searched his mind, he couldn’t remember if he had. He turned away from the window and looked around the living room. There was nothing different then there should have been.
He shrugged, his mind was playing tricks on him. So, he had found a set of keys like his own. That didn’t have to be that strange, did it? He returned to the kitchen, he was still thirsty. Everything inside of him went still, as there in the center of the table were his keys. His eyes slowly lowered to the keys in his hand. Two sets, yet there, staring at him, was a third. He felt everything grow still around him, even the house seemed to hold its breath as he made himself walk to the table. Reach out to take the keys again. They were real, heavy in his hand. He closed his eyes. Was he losing his mind? Was he perhaps asleep? He forced himself to walk out of the kitchen into the hall. Again his eyes swept the rooms spreading around him, his ears strained to hear. No one was there, no sound could be heard to alert him that someone was trying to play a prank on him. But they had to be, right?
He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something was amiss. Even though everything else seemed as it should, it didn’t feel the same. Again he went to the window and looked at the car. It was still parked, tire partially on the lawn. There was the newspaper lying on the walk leading to the front door. Hadn’t he already picked that up before he had left the house? Hadn’t he? Dread crept into him now as he looked slowly around the living room. The TV was on. When had that happened? He specifically remembered turning it off when he left. But it was on, with no volume. On a channel he knew he would never watch. What was going on? He crossed the living room to the hall way that led to the back of the house.
“Becky?” He called out, but only silence, heavy and dull, greeted him.
He entered the bedroom he shared with his fiancé. The bed was made where he had left it unmade only that morning. The book on the nightstand was not the one that should have been there. It was Becky’s nighttime read, not his. He looked around the room.
“Becky?” He called again.
He turned and went out into the hall. Why did he feel so scared? These were such small things. Surely Becky had returned to the house during the day and made the bed. She had watched TV and just forgotten to turn it off when she left. That explained everything else, but what about the keys? He looked down at the three sets of keys he held in his hand, but now there was only one set.
He swallowed hard, looking down the long hallway to the kitchen where the light shone out. He had to know, he had to look. He stepped through the kitchen door way, looked at the table.
There in the center of the table lay his keys. Beneath them was a clipping from a newspaper. He stepped forward to read the word, ‘Obituary’, followed by HIS name.