Mike was confused and Amanda knew it.
"We are
having guests!" Amanda said, her voice drifting from the bathroom at back
of their apartment.
"Guests?"
Mike returned, his accompanied sigh caught the wake of Amanda’s suggestion
between the fridge and the counter, where Amanda had arranged couple board
games. Among the board games were several bottles of vinegar and two armfuls of
tall glass candles, each displaying religious icons and a language somewhere in
between Spanish and Japanese.
"I got them
at Target...they were on sale!" Amanda offered in her most bubbly tone.
"Uhm...Target
sells candles?"
"UHM...Target
sells everything," Amanda retorted, playfully grinning from around the
corner.
Mike scanned the
games and saw a "3-6 players" logo presented clearly on the bottom of
the box.
He muttered to
himself, "Guests? Huh?"
On their own, Clue
and Monopoly are not an issue. In fact, Mike wanted to play board games, he
likes board games. He can think of specific situations, during phone calls and
in group chat conversations, where he made it a point to inform interested, and
uninterested, parties how much he enjoyed the time spent around a tabletop with
his wife. In these moments, he would point out how adept she is at finding a
weakness in her opponent’s strategy, and how he loved her particular penchant
for drawing out the torture of losing in every single game. For him it is a
dance, but as with all dancing, three is a crowd of people stepping on each other’s
feet. And while Mike isn't sure if he is a masochist, he is sure he doesn't
want to dance with anyone else. Especially, someone who may or may not be
trapped with them over the fallout of
a hurricane that meteorologist are already calling "catastrophic."
With his interests at near full peak, Mike
began rolling through the many questions he had:
Who
are these guests?
Why
are they staying here?
When
was she going to tell me?
Instead, the only words that came out were,
"What's with all the vinegar?"
Amanda, already
behind him, responded in a whisper, "That's if they get
thirsty."
Mike spun around drooping
his ear to his to his shoulder, trying to press the tickle that was crawling
deep into his ear drum and tingling down his neck.
"JESUS...where
the hell did you just come from...Don't sneak up on me like that!" He
whelped. Smiling and unphased Amanda stood, statuesque. Her eyes, steady
pins of dark-midnight at the end of long dark tunnel.
He continued,
"Are you alright...you look...well great, but what is with the baby
powder?" Noticing her face and arms dusted in a white substance.
"Oh
no...That’s sage," Amanda said tilting her head gently.
"They had it
at Target?" Mike asked.
"They had it
at Target," Echoed Amanda.
For a moment Mike
wondered if he should bother asking any more questions. His gut told him
something was wrong -
(his gut told ME something was
wrong and I'm just a narrator)
-but, his gut also told him
something else. Something deeper, wilder, more incredible, more immense, and
more immediate then the hurricane that was now baring down on them. It
told him that she was happy. And if she was happy, he was happy. And by her
side, he was ready to stand in the eye of that cyclone, starring at whirling
walls of shit that wrapped them up in bliss.
Mike finally put
it all together and smiled back. Recognizing he had never taken part in a séance,
let alone one meant to increase the household occupants to an amount suitable
for connecting Colonel Mustard to the rope in the study, he calmly asked,
"Amanda, what did you want to do today?"
"That’s the
spirit, bub! Grab a couple candles and follow me!"
By the time she
had finished her request the front door was swung open, Amanda was down the
front steps, cutting through a wall of wind and rain, and Mike was just taking
his first step, still catching up to the irony of her using the word
"spirit" and what all of her words meant for today, tonight, and the
fallout tomorrow.
