The Stranger
by
Erica Gonsalves
There is a stranger in your kitchen. He plays an accordion with a furrowed brow and a slack jaw that leans to the left. He acts as though you are the intruder when you interrupt him.
“No one knows where you’ve been,” he accuses before returning to his instrument. You stand there, hands pinned to your sides, as disheveled as the travel bag contents you forget dropping to the floor.
He is nothing like the boy you left behind in Berlin. There’s something unsettling about his teeth. They peek out under puffy lips in a solid, straight line. Human teeth need distinct angles, each one worthy of their function. His teeth are one slab, perfect for slowly gnashing slowly at their victim, grinding it into a fine powder. His eyes close, but that mouth remains open, moving, trying to sing, but no words come out. Those teeth put a halt to the purpose.
You remember the boy in Berlin. The way he would air drum when you listened to a powerful song. His mouth would tense up in the moment as the hint of a smile formed at the corners. Every once in a while, he’d remember where he was and came back to the present so you could share his smile.
You suddenly hate the sound of the accordion.
“I’m sorry,” you begin.
He stops.
“Well?” It’s like speaking to a ventriloquist puppet. “Where were you?”
“On holiday.” Simple and direct. “Who are you?”
He begins to play again, a mournful screech. “Must have been a long holiday. I moved in two weeks ago. I’m subletting Anthony’s room.” The shrill grows louder and stops. “Welcome home, roomie,” he adds, then that horrible mouth goes limp once more.
The conversation is over, so you head to your bedroom. You run your tongue over your teeth, feeling the separate points and curves, the occasional crowded crookedness. Is it too early to call the boy in Berlin to tell him about the scar that has formed underneath your right elbow from the night you both fell running? You consider going back outside to start over with Accordion Boy. Maybe you can tell him about your trip. Show him some of the stamps on your passport that weren’t there before and teach him the correct way to wriggle the lock to open the front window when it jams.
But you settle into bed, cringe at the crooning from the kitchen, and wonder how hard you need to squeeze a squeezebox to break it.
Maybe once you’ve rested you’ll start over. You’ll sit Accordion Boy down and explain how you’re the same but you’re different.
Two strangers in the same kitchen, but even you don’t really know what that means.
“No one knows where you’ve been,” he accuses before returning to his instrument. You stand there, hands pinned to your sides, as disheveled as the travel bag contents you forget dropping to the floor.
He is nothing like the boy you left behind in Berlin. There’s something unsettling about his teeth. They peek out under puffy lips in a solid, straight line. Human teeth need distinct angles, each one worthy of their function. His teeth are one slab, perfect for slowly gnashing slowly at their victim, grinding it into a fine powder. His eyes close, but that mouth remains open, moving, trying to sing, but no words come out. Those teeth put a halt to the purpose.
You remember the boy in Berlin. The way he would air drum when you listened to a powerful song. His mouth would tense up in the moment as the hint of a smile formed at the corners. Every once in a while, he’d remember where he was and came back to the present so you could share his smile.
You suddenly hate the sound of the accordion.
“I’m sorry,” you begin.
He stops.
“Well?” It’s like speaking to a ventriloquist puppet. “Where were you?”
“On holiday.” Simple and direct. “Who are you?”
He begins to play again, a mournful screech. “Must have been a long holiday. I moved in two weeks ago. I’m subletting Anthony’s room.” The shrill grows louder and stops. “Welcome home, roomie,” he adds, then that horrible mouth goes limp once more.
The conversation is over, so you head to your bedroom. You run your tongue over your teeth, feeling the separate points and curves, the occasional crowded crookedness. Is it too early to call the boy in Berlin to tell him about the scar that has formed underneath your right elbow from the night you both fell running? You consider going back outside to start over with Accordion Boy. Maybe you can tell him about your trip. Show him some of the stamps on your passport that weren’t there before and teach him the correct way to wriggle the lock to open the front window when it jams.
But you settle into bed, cringe at the crooning from the kitchen, and wonder how hard you need to squeeze a squeezebox to break it.
Maybe once you’ve rested you’ll start over. You’ll sit Accordion Boy down and explain how you’re the same but you’re different.
Two strangers in the same kitchen, but even you don’t really know what that means.
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
