You’re supposed to be in the next room.
It’s Friday, work at home day. We’re supposed to chatter back and forth all day, you in your office across the hall, me in mine.
But it’s silent.
I can’t hear your big fingers clacking away at the keyboard – the fastest hunt and peck typing I’ve ever heard.
I can’t hear you groan when your knees creak as you stand, or groan again as you plunk back down into your office chair.
I can’t hear you yell, “Kitty, shut up!” as she whines for no reason. Or hear you finally succumb to her plaintive cries and open the back door, only to slam it again with a loud curse (Stupid head!) when she simply stares outside at the yard.
You aren’t asking if I want you to make me some breakfast.
You aren’t asking, “What’s on the agenda for today?”
You aren’t there.
You’re supposed to be in the next room.
