Our Contract of Distrust

-- 12 --

It's Sunday morning. I'm cradling a cup of tea between my tucked-up knees, not in the slightest inclined to change out of my pyjamas, while Feodor shrugs into a light jacket.

"I'm heading off." He says.

"Okay."

He hesitates in the doorway, as if he wants to say something.

For a moment he just stands there with his lips slightly parted.

Gaping like a stupid fish.

"I'll be back around lunchtime." He finally says.

"Okay."

I don't think that's what he really wanted to convey, but it's not my problem.

He never mentioned where he was going and I never asked.

That was an unspoken rule of our contract. Neither of us asking what we really wanted to, nor saying how we truly felt.

Not that I actually care how he spends his free time, so long as it doesn't involve me.

This house feels more comfortable in his absence. And yet, I still feel uneasy.

I know it's a relatively stupid thought, but I almost feel as though my every move is being recorded.

My eyes traverse every wall, cupboard, stop on every doorhandle; but if I'm being honest with myself, I know that I wouldn't even recognise such a device if I stared for an hour.

Regardless of whether or not I'm being observed, this is as good a chance as any to search for that metal box.

If I were Feodor, where would I hide it?

It seems a simple question, and yet I don't have the foggiest idea. I'd be better off guessing a complete stranger's favourite colour.

Would Feodor's favourite colour be black?

I suddenly feel sorry for black.

Moving on. Without trying to make sense of Feodor, where could it be?

Hidden in plain sight is generally a good idea. But does this house have anywhere like that?

Would he have kept it in the bedroom after last time?

But the guest room didn't seem like a good idea either with how much time I spend in there.

The bathroom?

Surely not the kitchen, right?

Since merely sitting and thinking through the problem offers little progress, I eventually drag myself out of the chair.

I really should be more motivated for this. Who knows what could really depend on it. Perhaps my very life.

And yet, the wind rustling through leaves somehow beckons me to curl into a tight ball and forget about it all.

If forgetting could erase problems, then I would be at an advantage.

Instead, reality crumbles beneath my feet like some high stakes video game.

Can I jump between points A and B in my mind without slipping into that black abyss?

I shake my head to clear my mind. I need to focus. Even if I have no idea about its whereabouts, systematically searching the house is better than doing nothing.

I start with the kitchen. Pots and pans stacked haphazardly. An old mousetrap without bait. Spare dishcloths. Nothing.

The bathroom. Some old containers that need to meet the bin. Spare toothbrushes and soap. Nothing.