Dead Air Space

I am Schrödinger’s Hairless Cat

His hands fondled the plastic open, running his thumbprint along its under-side, peeling it apart from the plastic cheese it covered. A brown wooden box sat beside him on the table and the plastic was laid to sleep inside it. The box smelled like he thought the outside would and he breathed it in. He tore strips off the alabaster cheese and ate them, his tastebuds squealed with delight and stretched out their heads to greet each one. Their little tongues salivating. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

His toes vibrated on the carpet as the door knocked. His hands lingered on the wooden box as he checked his watch. Ten-fifteen. She’s never late. And there she was, affected smile painted on her smooth skin, blue striped shirt tucked firmly into a white skirt, hair straight and black and tucked gracefully behind her ears, arms skilfully managing bags full of groceries. She was perfect. She was perfect and it irked him, like plastic with a breath and a heartbeat. She was the uncanny and he was deep within the Valley. Within it and without it.

“Judy, hello. Come in.”
“Hello sir! I hope I’m not interrupting? Shall I put these away for you?”
“Of course not, and of course. You know where the kitchen is,” his arms directing the way. But she would always wait until he had led her there. And so he did. And she left the door ajar.