It was not long after dinner. I had just taken a beer from the refrigerator and was rummaging through my mind to think of where I kept the opener—since Penny left I had been buying cans for convenience, pop-top or pull tab; the six-pack of bottles was a mistake, or an aspiration—when I heard Allan’s feet on the mat outside the front door, the telltale way he shuffled and pressed his toes right up against the weatherstrip, producing a click when it contacted the loose right edge of the door. I should have gone right to the door to open it. But there was the matter of the beer, and the long day that had come before it, and my mind had almost arrived at to an answer regarding the location of the opener. I figured he’d stay there and wait while I followed my hunch. I was right. The opener lay like a sardine between sets of chopsticks. I leveraged the cap off the beer bottle, left it on the counter, and walked across the house. That was my version of hurrying. I didn’t see his shape through the frosted window. I turned the lock and then the knob. He was no longer darkening my door. He was off to the side, on the ground, knees buckled, arms loose, hands open as if imploring. His eyes were wide open but he was not in them any longer. He was dead. I should have known that it would happen. Or rather: I knew that it would happen eventually. I should have known when. But it was Allan. Who cares about Allan? I went back inside, swept the bottlecap into my palm, deposited it in the garbage, and fired up the stereo: Gardening Crew, second record. "Impractical Shoes" was first. After "She Moved Her Hair So I Could See Her Face," I called the police.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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