Don't Sit There

The house was spotless, but she didn’t know what else to do when she came home alone, so she tidied a clean house. Since there were no dishes in the sink, she scrubbed the sink itself. She wiped down the counters in the kitchen, and when she ran out of counters, she washed the cupboards. She disinfected every knob and handle, the stove, and the refrigerator. She carefully replaced every magnet on the fridge, perpendicular and evenly spaced, just the way he had always insisted was correct.

She repeated a similar process in the bathroom. If a germ or speck, a tiny strand of hair, had been foolish enough to linger there it was eradicated.

In the bedrooms, she fluffed pillows and straightened the pictures on the walls. As she dusted the dust-free surface of the bureau she caught her reflection in the mirror above it. Out of habit, she confirmed that her make-up was flawless and her hair smooth. She looked deep into the eyes of a stranger, an imposter wearing a mask of her face. She shook off the feeling, slapping her cheeks gently as though she was forcing herself awake from a bad dream. She closed her eyes, opened them, leaned in closer and reexamined her face. No change.

She decided to make tea.

Back in the kitchen, she filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She counted the clicks, one, two, three, four, that preceded the satisfying puff of gas igniting. While she waited for the water to boil, she chose a cup and sachet of tea, placing them on the counter next to the stove. She turned and looked out the large picture window toward the street. A neighbor was walking a goldendoodle past the house. They made eye contact, and the neighbor offered a sympathetic smile and subdued wave, barely tilting up her hand. The woman on the sidewalk paused for a brief moment, but at the designer dog’s urging, moved on.

When the kettle whistled, she made her tea, waited exactly four minutes for it to steep, then took it into the living room. The room felt foreign to her, though she couldn’t say how many hundreds, if not thousands of hours she had spent sitting in that exact same place on the sofa. She struggled to hold up the air that crushed her shoulders. Everything looked the same, smelled the same, but it wasn’t. She squirmed in her spot. She considered the possibility that the lack of sound was the thing making her uncomfortable, so she retrieved the remote from the table next to the big leather chair that she had never, ever, under any circumstances sat in. She settled back in her seat with her tea and turned on the television. It had been left on the twenty-four hour news channel with stock values scrolling across the bottom. She sipped her tea, changed her position, and gazed without seeing or hearing. No matter how she tried to adjust her body, her skin tingled and her muscles twitched. She couldn’t find a position that soothed her ineffable discomfort. Her attention kept returning to the chair. It’s hulking form, even unoccupied, loomed large in the room. She inched her body closer, dividing her attention between the chatter on the television, her tea, and the chair until she was so close to the piece of furniture that her hand could reach it.

She touched it with trepidation at first, withdrawing the way one tests the temperature of water, then rested her hand on the smooth arm when it didn’t burn her. She ran her finger tips over the supple leather, tracing the details of the upholstery and the indent where his arm had rested. A tiny inkling began to tease her as she examined the forbidden object. The inkling became an urge. The urge swelled to an uncontrollable desire. Did she dare? She stood and looked around the room, peeking over her shoulder, even though she knew no one would be there ever again. Moving silently on her toes, she covered the small distance remaining between the sofa and the chair. Placing her hands on the arms for support, she held her breath as she delicately lowered herself to the seat. Her eyes darted around the room. Nothing happened.

The longer she sat, the more unnatural she felt. She wiggled around, brought her legs to her chest and curled up, got a pillow to lean on, stretched out, but grew less content the more she tried to discover what was so special about this chair. She set her tea on the table and turned off the television.

The overpriced, loved-above-all-else chair was objectively uncomfortable.

She stood, hands on her hips and feet apart, assessing the chair, taking in its form and wondering how much it weighed. There was one way to find out. She bent over and threw her full weight, shoulder first, into the behemoth. She nearly fell over when it moved far more easily than she expected. A bead of sweat trickled down the center of her forehead and she wiped it away. She backed up to gain momentum, then launched another tackle, knocking chair on its side. It slid across the floor fairly well once toppled, and with only a little grunting, she pushed the chair out of the living room, into the foyer, and to the front door.

The mahogany door was wide, but as she shoved the leather monstrosity through with a mighty heave, one of the feet clipped the door frame, taking a chunk of wood with it. She froze, paralyzed. Every muscle tensed. She waited for the fallout, but no one berated her about how much it would cost to fix the damage or what the neighbors might think. No one told her she was worthless or stupid. There was no cursing. No throwing things.

Glorious silence.

She closed her eyes and refilled her deflated lungs. The quiet enveloped her, like stepping into the sun from the shadows. She hopped up and down in place, shaking her arms and legs to return the blood flow. One more shove and the chair tumbled down the stairs to the walkway. Adrenaline surged. With renewed strength, she pushed the chair down the brick path, not caring for the pristine row of flowers on either side. The sidewalk seemed like a safe enough distance from the house, so when she got that far, she left the chair and marched back inside.

She made her way to his office, the only room she hadn’t tidied on her unnecessary cleaning spree. Like the chair, it was out-of-bounds. She spotted the liquor cabinet in the corner, opened it, and perused the bottles of scotch. Carefully examining each label, she selected the one with the highest proof. There was a cigar box on the desk. She opened it and took a pack of matches. As she was about to close the lid, she noticed that the pack under the one she had picked up had an imprint of lips on it. She threw the matches in her hand to the desk, and instead grabbed the ones with a kiss left in a lipstick she didn’t own.

Back outside, she pulled the cork from the bottle of scotch with her teeth and spit it out on the perfectly manicured lawn. She sniffed the golden liquid, then took a swig. She winced at the burn in her throat, nose, and eyes, until a satisfying warmth took over. She drank again. So quickly it went from painful to pleasant. She approached the chair, drizzled most of the contents of the bottle over it, then set the scotch down on the ground and lit one of the matches. She tossed the match onto the chair. A small flame sprang to life. She lit another, threw it on, and a twin flame appeared. A third match transformed the chair into a massive conflagration and she lobbed in the whole pack, crimson kiss and all. She backed away when the heat and growing plume of black smoke became too much to bear, picking up the scotch along her retreat. She sat on the steps of her home watching the flames dance and sipping the remaining scotch from the bottle, no longer shocked by the sensation of it, and unbothered by the noxious fumes emanating from the pyre. Even the sound of the firetrucks in the distance couldn’t break her peace.

She breathed deeply, almost enjoying the odors that swirled around her. Freedom smelled like burning hair. It was lovely.