I know what purgatory is like. I’ve been there. I am there. I’ve been trapped in this kitchen for what feels like hours, but when I look at the time, it still says six o’clock. The seconds are dragging. My girlfriend’s mother is staring, so too are her father and brother.
Hell, even the dog is watching me now.
I clear my throat and try out some small talk, but instead of my usual smooth confidence, a pathetic creak croaks out. Like I just hit puberty, again. I swallow hard. My saliva is thick and congealed, and it makes my tongue click, but I try the small talk thing.
“So…Mr. Anderson, are you a Flames fan?”
I’m grasping at straws, trying to bridge the gap between genders and generations. Mr. Anderson—he hasn’t offered me any other name—stares at me with a cold, blank look. His mouth is a hard, thin line, barely visible under a greying moustache.
He doesn’t acknowledge my question.
Mrs. Anderson doesn’t blink. Instead, she looks at me the way you look at mould on an expensive block of cheese, like she’s trying to decide whether it’s safe to scrape the infection off or if she has to throw the whole damn thing away. What a waste. Her eyes trace my face, my sweaty hands on her lovely wooden table, my incessant bouncing knee. My nerves are all coiled up and ready to spring, but instead of bolting, I’m forcing myself to be still.
Well, as still as possible.
“You can sit,” she said when she let me into her house earlier, motioning to the kitchen table the way an executioner points his axe to the chopping block.
It wasn’t an invitation.
The chair creaked when I sat. Everything seems to creak here. The house sounds old, but not in that cozy, lived-in way; instead, it’s more like it’s remembering things, like how an abused dog still flinches when it sees an outstretched hand. The walls feel distended with difficult memories, and I imagine that if I pressed my ear to them, I’d hear every argument they’d ever contained.
The dog’s nails click against the floor. He circles the table once, twice, then stops directly behind my chair. I can feel his breath on the back of my calf; it’s hot and damp.
“Sarah knows I’m here, right?” I ask, finally. My voice sounds wrong in this room, too high-pitched and flighty.
Mrs. Anderson exhales sharply through her nose, “She’ll be down when she’s ready.”
Sarah’s kid brother—Evan, I think—sits across from me. He can’t be more than seven years old, maybe eight; kids all look the same when they’re that young. He’s slouched so far down in his chair that he’s practically spilling out of it. He’s been staring at me this entire time, his eyes wide and unblinking, like he was watching a centipede crawl across the floor.
He starts tapping his index finger against the table.
Once.
Twice.
Again, and again.
And again.
“Evan,” Mr. Anderson warns.
The tapping stops. The kitchen is silent. I hold my breath.
On the sly, I check my phone. No new messages. No apology texts. No “sorry, running late.” Just the same thread from earlier: Sarah saying to be at her place for six o’clock with a cute smiley face and a pink heart emoji, and my lame attempt at a flirtatious reply. I think about texting her, but I don’t.
I look at the time in the right-hand corner of the screen.
It’s six.
It’s always been six.
Mrs. Anderson stands and begins wiping down an already spotless counter with a rag from the sink. She scrubs at it like she’s trying to erase some stubborn thought that’s seeped out. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks, choosing instead to hurl the words over her shoulder.
“You’re proper. Respectful of the rules,” she says. It isn’t a question.
“I-yeah—yes,” I reply too fast, my tongue tripping over the words.
Her hand pauses mid-wipe, and her shoulders stiffen, “Good.”
The dog shifts, pressing closer. I can almost feel his wet nose against my dark jeans. I imagine his jaw opening around my denim-covered flesh, teeth sinking into my leg, the relief of having something happen, anything, that would get me out of this kitchen.
The minutes stretch on.
I’m hyper-aware of everything wrong with me: the way the armpits of my shirt are growing damp with sweat, the faint shake in my hands, the itch on my nose I’m too afraid to scratch, my uneven breath.
Evan suddenly laughs. It’s a sharp, mischievous sound. No one tells him to quiet down.
“What?” I ask.
His grin is all baby teeth.
I look to the adults for clarification. Mr. Anderson’s eyes flick to the digital clock on the stove, then back to me. They’re stony and blank. Mrs. Anderson is still scrubbing the same spot on the counter. The dog groans. It’s a low, quiet sound.
Still, they ignore me.
I imagine myself shrinking. Imagine becoming smaller and smaller until I can slip between the cracks in the floorboards and disappear into whatever darkness lies beneath this claustrophobic place. I imagine standing up, walking out of this oppressive house, the front door slamming shut behind me. I imagine never seeing Sarah again and feel a strange, guilty relief in the pit of my stomach.
The sound of footsteps upstairs breaks through the silence. We all glance up toward the ceiling. The footsteps stop, then start again, closer this time. In a few agonizing seconds, Sarah appears at the top of the stairs, radiant and oblivious, adjusting a dangling earring with one hand.
“Sorry! My hair wasn’t cooperating.” She giggles, like it’s a joke we’re all in on, and comes down. The air clears when she enters, like a window thrown open on a hot and muggy day. “Ready?” she asks as she slides her hands over her pink dress, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles.
I stand too fast, and my vision darkens around the edges. The chair screams against the floor, and I grit my teeth, trying not to draw any more attention to myself. My ass is numb from sitting, but I manage to walk away from the table like nothing was wrong.
We move toward the door, and I can feel Sarah’s family watching us. Feel their eyes on my back.
We say our good-byes in the small, cramped entryway, and I promise to bring Sarah back before curfew. The door closes behind us. Outside, the air is cold, and clean, and crisp. I suck it in as if I’ve been holding my breath underwater.
Sarah slips her hand into mine. It’s warm and reassuring.
“You okay?”
I glance back at the house and catch a curtain fluttering as a hand disappears behind the sunbleached floral fabric.
“Yeah,” I say, my shoulders relaxing, “Yeah. I’m fine.”
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Woahh. I could feel the anxiety!! Great story Theo!
This was so cool to read. It's like the writing style stretched out every second, until everything happened at an excruciating pace. You really captured the anxiety. Great work!