When I woke this morning. there was a curious smell in the air and my head was heavy with ache. Instead of my usual route straight to the bathroom where I bathe and then a hop skip jump back toward my closet for a sweater vest and khakis (it’s Thursday – I always wear a sweater vest and khakis on Thursdays), I made a bee-line for the kitchen. I found a plate of sticky buns sitting on the table. I have never found a plate of sticky buns on my kitchen table in all my years of existence. [Slowly] Until now. Where, oh where, had this plate of sticky buns come from? I searched my brain and came up with a few options; had I wanted a midnight snack? Had I been sleepwalking? Had Marvin the Cat prepared them while I dozed? Was there a little chubby man made of Pillsbury dough hiding in my pantry? None of said options had very much merit, I must add. I do not typically eat in the evening, as I have a mild case of Acid Reflux. (Oh, its nothing. Just a little indigestion that keeps me up at night.) But I most certainly do not sleepwalk. Of that, I am sure. And I highly doubt that Marvin would be capable of making said plate of sticky buns without any opposable thumbs! Besides! If there were a little chubby man made of Pillsbury dough in my kitchen making a plate of sticky buns while I slept, I think I'd know about it. Or, Marvin would have eaten him. They're one in the same, really. And as I stood there with the breeze blowing through my hair (didn't I close that window before bed?) and the scent of said plate of sticky buns rising to my nostrils, I suddenly heard it! Distant, but a roar. A most definite roar. Water! Yes! Yes... I hadn’t noticed it before in my confusion over the smell of the plate of sticky buns. Oh yes, the shower was most certainly on! But who --- who? –- was in it?
It is as this point in my story when I grabbed a spatula. In my panic, I assumed the item in hand was a knife. Or... something a bit more deadly. Like a rolling pin. [Slowly] Martha Style. And in my fantasy I grew distracted. Suddenly the pipes were whistling and the floors were creaking. He’d turned my shower off. Or she. That matter was yet to be devised. I searched the drawer for something better, frantically.
Finally armed with something sharp, I made my way. I could hear something. There was noise......... Was he singing?! The bastard was singing!
It is here in the story where I must digress to a shameful admittance. I paused. I actually paused and tried to figure out what song it was. Familiar, I thought at first. I know it somehow. You know how we think these things to ourselves when a song sounds familiar. We hum the first few beats, but by the end of the line we’ve suddenly remembered the second half of the lyric. And here am I, armed with a knife, hunting the baker of a plate of sticky buns that sits on my kitchen table trying to figure out if it’s Wagner or Verdi! Suddenly, the door burst open and the baker stepped out. My knife was poised, ready to attack, when the evening before suddenly came into focus, albeit a bit hazy at first. His shoulders were strikingly familiar, I thought. And the ears, yes... Oh. Oh, my.
[Beat.
Beat.
Beat.]
Norman, he said. Robert. That was his name. Are you playing a game?
Well, needless to say, I chuckled and batted an eyelash or two. Yes, Robert, yes. Just a little role-play.
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