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An Empty Home

I sigh as I walk into the house and drop my backpack. All the cars are here, but I don't see anyone inside. The dogs are put away, the cats are nowhere to be seen, but I spy random lights turned on while most were left off. And of course, I see the full dishwasher opened just enough to signal that it needs to be emptied.

Ignoring the dishwasher, I walk to the back of the house to unleash the pups from their confinement. One begins to whimper as he hears me walk through the hallway of bedrooms.

I open closed doors, unlock their cages, and return to the center of the house with them galloping ahead of me. I try to ignore the mysterious darkness beyond the wall of windows in the great room. I let the dogs outside into the breezy fifty-five degree night.

Sighing again, I return to the overflowing dishwasher. Is it an unspoken, to me at least, rule that the dishwasher is always left just for me?

Oh well. I turn on a sweet soundtrack from my favorite romantic movie, Moonstruck.

First the glasses return to their home, then the mugs, and then I begin on the dishes. Grabbing them two or three at a time, they rejoin their brothers and sisters that reside in the cabinet that neighbors the glasses. Next there are some elaborate serving bowls and silverware.

Softly singing along to my music, I stack three beautiful glass bowls in my arms and walk to the other side of the kitchen around the expansive island of granite; it is populated by the remaining dirty cookware and dishes from last night’s meal.

The tall spit that had held a chunk of dripping red meat last night, that I didn't eat, remains there too.

I open the tall cabinet, which contains the relatives of the serving dishes, and tentatively balance two dishes in one hand while placing another on a precariously stacked pile within the cabinet.

Suddenly, the garage door opens, and a man steps into the kitchen.

Glass shatters on the floor and spreads across the room in a storm as I spin around and grasp the spit.

Without thinking, I push it forward into the man, and we both fall onto the cold tile floor. Blood flows outwards from the man to join the furthest and most lonely glass shards.

The sweet sound of Moonstruck fades away as the album ends, and I stare at my blood-stained self.

The dogs bark at the door, ready to come back inside.

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