/ Ice Dam

This one, he thinks, this will be his immovable object, and he will tie it on a string and brace himself against the wall opposed to it, a foot from his nose, an inch, even, and he will shake the frame and slam the door and look up to the icicles and taunt the gathering weight behind the ice dam. But that would be as close as he’d allow himself that day. There are limits to these things. Everything has its place, he thinks. That’s enough for now.

It was the bell that broke his resolve, sent him crashing into the immovable object. Bells on the door! he thought. Goddamned bells at the liquor store. Why would they do that? Every time I hear that goddamned bell. Surely, they know, he scolded himself. How could he be so naive?

Maybe he could tie up his hands tight with all that string left over, help keep it steady on the wheel. When the hardware clerk called after him, “Hey, forget something?” he thought, there are other stores in town, don’t go back now. My god, you’d be crazy to. At autumn’s end, he thought, there’s no point in harvesting the last few rows of barley, not just for appearance’s sake.

She loved the kitchen. She had painted it yellow, put up delicate, lace curtains that she would clean by hand once a month. Eyes are the windows to the soul, she said, sitting at the table looking up at those curtains, but the prettiest eyes can't overcome a bad window treatment, batting her lashes. Oh, there is something about the appearance of taste.

Yellow kitchen, white curtains. In spring, the sun would reflect off of every little last bit of chrome. It is in a shambles now.

Out loud, he says, "The state of the manor is the state of the man." Although he would never have tolerated dirty dishes, the hinges on the cabinets creak, the floor holds no shine, the space above the refrigerator is a mess of cobwebs.

There is a shard of broken glass on the counter that he cannot remember. He checks his hands for cuts and looks around the floor. In the trashcan, behind the cabinet drawer underneath the sink, he sees a stack of broken glass piled neatly in its center.

"Everything in its place."

He drops the shard on top, but the pile falls over, the pieces peal and knell. “Bells of all things. Goddamned bells on the door. Why would they do that?”