definitely turn out to be one hell of a kitchen for you, my sexy chef man. Come in here and look at this!”
“Be right there, babe, just let me get the rest of these boxes off the porch.”
I look right into his face. The sprinkle of freckles on his nose matched the color of his hair. He had green eyes, greenest eyes I had ever seen. He favors Liam, how strange. I hadn’t thought about Liam until now. Really not much to think about.
“Damn! Babe, find a thermostat. We need to get the heat going.”
I watch the vapor rise from his breath as he speaks into the cold air surrounding him.
“Okay, babe,” she says, drawing my attention back to her. There she is standing in my kitchen with a big black marker in hand, sketching on my walls and drawing big black Xs on my cabinet doors!
I had to do something! I had to make her stop!
All the rage I was feeling flowed out of me toward her, then suddenly deflected into the pantry door. It slammed with such force that the walls shuttered! She screamed, then nervously turned to search the room around her. Her dark blue eyes were wide with fear. Her face drained of all its color as she stood there shaking.
“What the fuck, Jen? What was that?” he says as he runs quickly into the kitchen.
“That door just slammed on its own, Peter!” she stammered, still shaking.
“What? What do you mean, Jen?”
“I mean that fucking door just slammed on its own, Peter. That’s what I fucking mean!”
“Jeeze, you scared the shit out of me. I thought you fell or something.”
“Peter! Did you hear what I just said? That door slammed by itself! I am really freaked out right now.”
“Jen, it’s an old house. It was probably just caught by a draft or something.”
“From where, Peter? Where would a draft that strong come from?”
“Well, I did have the front door open, and it is windy outside.”
“I didn’t feel any wind, Peter.”
“Come on, babe. I think you’re just overreacting,” he said as he put his arms around her. “This really is a great kitchen. I am going to make some amazing food in here! Wow, you’re trembling, baby,” he said as reached out to her, rubbing both of her arms vigorously, as if to try and warm her up.
“I told you, Peter. That was really freaking weird.”
He pulled her close to him. He began kissing and caressing her. “You know what’s weird, I haven’t kissed you all day,” he said in a low, husky whisper.
She turned to him and kissed him back. He lifted her up onto the counter. They were both breathing heavily. They didn’t seem to notice the vapor of their breath floating upward in the air. He pulled at the button on her jeans with clumsy, excited fingers. She reached down to help him, both of them laughing at his uncoordinated efforts. He pulled off her jeans; she removed his shirt and yanked his belt off. His jeans slid down, exposing his buttocks.
I gazed longingly at the two of them. I watched as their bodies moved together. She was so much smaller than him. If I had to guess, I would say she was a little over five feet tall, but not by much. He looked to be around six foot at the least. He held her up easily, while thrusting himself into her body. I could see the pleasure on her face, her teeth partially bared into a faint smile. The deep red of her flushed cheeks. The little beads of sweat on his forehead.
Stanley and I made love in every room of this house. We made a point of not skipping one. It was our move in ceremony. Watching them made me feel that passion again. And although I cannot recall feeling envy for another person when I was a living being, I now feel the sting of envy for this young woman burning deeply in my soul.
* * * * *
Her name is Jen, short for Jennifer. I watch as she enthusiastically destroys my home. With every wall she tears down, a part of my existence goes with it. My memories brought me peace and solace before, but now, as I watch her tear them apart, I only feel rage! The entire kitchen gutted. All the warm oak cabinets removed and replaced with stainless steel. My old potbellied stove that Stanley and I worked so hard to restore, thrown out like a piece of old garbage. Now, an industrial oven sits where it once was. As for my living room! She painted my living room dark purple with orange accents! Everything that was once comforting and inviting has been changed into an assault on the eyes. I don’t even know what to call this style. If I could throw up, I would, all over her!
She converted Amber’s room into an art studio. Plastic drop sheets cover my pinewood floors. Canvasses and paint splatter everywhere. She never cleans up after herself! Try as I may, I cannot seem to make anything happen again. I follow her throughout the house, trying to concentrate my energy on objects so that I can throw them at her. But I can’t concentrate! She has me spinning in a whirlwind of emotion! I have to get her out of here before she destroys everything. I am finding it hard to recognize my own house. I feel heavy, less buoyant then before.
I do believe she is killing me! If it’s possible to kill someone who is already dead.
I hate her.
Peter just lets her do whatever she wants. I can see by the expressions on his face that he is not happy with a lot of the changes she has made. But he never objects. He just says, “Whatever makes you happy.” He doesn’t stay home much. Apparently, he works very hard trying to make his restaurant successful. I only see him after the sun goes down. He is in a band or something. He and his buddies blare their music, if you can call it that, out there in the garage. There is no place I can go to get away from them. It is only quiet when they are asleep, sleeping in the room that Stanley and I once shared…
The doorbell rings. Jen runs to the foyer to answer it. A gentleman in a white hard hat with a fluorescent green vest is standing there.
“Mrs. Gibson?”
“Yes, I am Mrs. Gibson.”
“We’re here to do the work on the porch.”
“Oh, yes. We’ve been expecting you. Is there anything you need from me before you get started?”
“No, ma’am, everything’s taken care of already.”
“Well, okay, just knock if you need something.”
I peer out the window and watch in horror as they dismantle my porch. Why would she want to take the porch down? What is wrong with this woman? Up there in her studio, flinging paint on to canvass and calling it art. If I could cry, I would. They pull the boards up, one by one, revealing the ground that has been hidden beneath the porch for all these years. One of the construction workers bends down and picks something up, then throws it in a heap of trash. It’s my shoe! My old red Converse! Stanley and I decided to leave it there, encapsulated in time. It was part of our history. We told our girls the story about the day we found this house. How I fell through the old rotting wood and got my leg stuck. “Not just stuck, girls,” Stanley would say, “your mom broke her ankle! And that shoe remains under the porch to this day.” The girls would lie on the porch, belly down, and peer between the spaces of the boards and try to find it. My beauties,
