A Civil Matter

I’m recuperating from surgery
and hope to be back tomorrow.

Written for Muse On Monday where David
has asked us to write about someone breaking
into their own house. Here’s my take.

The key slid in; it always had. But tonight it stopped halfway, caught on tumblers that no longer matched.

Miles stood on his own porch, rain darkening his collar, staring at a lock that had been changed while he was at work.

He’d suspected something was going on. He just didn’t know it would be so soon and so abrupt.

Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, he could see the hallway light …. his hallway light …. the energy-efficient soft white bulb he’d installed himself casting a warm glow over the coat rack. A man’s jacket hung there that wasn’t his. Heavy and dark and right at home.

He went back to his car and called the police. Just a few harmless questions, hypothetically speaking. The desk officer was polite, almost bored.

“It’s a civil matter, sir. There’s nothing the police can do. You’ll need to speak to a lawyer.”

“But it’s my house. I live there.”

“Is your name on the mortgage?”

“Jointly,” Miles said.

“Then I’d suggest finding somewhere to stay tonight.”

Miles hung up and looked back at the house. The light in the bedroom …. the one he shared with his wife …. clicked on. A silhouette moved behind the curtain, then another. As they embraced, he looked away, his anger rising.

How could she? How dare she?

After 13 years, he had been summarily dismissed without so much as a discussion. No suggestion of counseling. No ultimatums. No call from her lawyer. Shooed away like an annoying pest, kicked out of his bed, and locked out of his house …. literally.

Miles walked around the side, through the gate they’d always left unlatched. He went to the kitchen window, the one with the broken secondary lock. He’d asked her to look into getting someone to come out to fix it. He’d mentioned it a dozen times.

She’d never seemed concerned.

He eased it open, the familiar resistance giving way, and slipped inside. He stood in the shadows of his own kitchen, listening to the murmur of voices and laughter upstairs.

Dishes from dinner were still on the dining room table, apparently left in haste. Candles. Wine glasses. Table set for two. Cozy fireplace. It looked romantic.

Miles stood in the dining room, blood boiling, fists clenched by his side. Her sudden squeal of delight from upstairs followed by a man’s raucous laugh broke the quiet.

This was all too much. He’d been betrayed, slapped in the face, and humiliated. The voices in his head were a continuous loop: How could she? How dare she?

He looked at the smoldering fire for a second, then crossed the room in three long strides. He zipped his jacket up over his mouth and nose, pulled on his gloves, and knelt by the fireplace. Reaching in for the chimney flue, he slid it closed.

Almost immediately, the room began to fill with smoke. Silent toxic carbon monoxide fumes would quickly reach the bedroom.

Without a sound, Miles sprinted to the kitchen, climbed out the window he came in, and closed it behind him. He walked to his car and drove away.

Such a tragedy when something like this happens.

This is “It’s All Too Much” by The Beatles