A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-6
She Changes Where Things Belong
The first obvious change was the blue mug. That morning, brewing coffee, it wasn't there. Finally found it on the top shelf of the sterilizer cabinet, gathering a fine dust. At first, I thought I'd misremembered. But the changes kept coming. Salt and pepper shakers swapped places. Dishwasher detergent migrated from under the sink to beside the stove. I asked Marta: "You rearranged things?" She was wiping cupboard doors. Her hand stopped. Turned to look at me: "Yes." After that, the blue mug returned to the rack, but pushed to the far left, not the center.
The Trash Bin Incident
Washing the mug after use always left a stubborn white residue at the bottom. Rinsing wouldn't shift it; I needed a paper towel. The crumpled towel went into the kitchen bin, lost among banana peels and wrappers. That afternoon, I saw Marta beside the bin. Her gaze shifted through the debris, settling finally on a specific crumple – mine from last night, the edge showing a hint of creaminess. After that, she emptied the bin more often. Before dumping, she'd use clips to sift quickly, eyes scanning. Once, I buried a stained towel deep down. The next day, it was unearthed, perched on top, one corner unfolded. Later, I started flushing the towels down the toilet. The kitchen bin saw no more white wads.
The Afternoon Slumber
Around 2 PM, the drug's effects peak. If working from home, I'm at my desk then. But words on the screen blur, overlap. I know it's time. Save. Shut down. Walk to the living room. Lie on the leather sofa. Close my eyes. Consciousness dissolves. Waking, head heavy, mind foggy, minutes crawling past before clarity returns. Open my eyes. Marta is across the room. Cloth in hand, but unmoving. Standing. Watching me. Our eyes meet. She doesn't look away. I blink. "What time?" Pointing to the wall clock: 3:15. "I fell asleep." "Sleep deep," she states. "Yes." Trying to rise. Legs weak. Sit back down.
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The first obvious change was the blue mug. That morning, brewing coffee, it wasn't there. Finally found it on the top shelf of the sterilizer cabinet, gathering a fine dust. At first, I thought I'd misremembered. But the changes kept coming. Salt and pepper shakers swapped places. Dishwasher detergent migrated from under the sink to beside the stove. I asked Marta: "You rearranged things?" She was wiping cupboard doors. Her hand stopped. Turned to look at me: "Yes." After that, the blue mug returned to the rack, but pushed to the far left, not the center.
The Trash Bin Incident
Washing the mug after use always left a stubborn white residue at the bottom. Rinsing wouldn't shift it; I needed a paper towel. The crumpled towel went into the kitchen bin, lost among banana peels and wrappers. That afternoon, I saw Marta beside the bin. Her gaze shifted through the debris, settling finally on a specific crumple – mine from last night, the edge showing a hint of creaminess. After that, she emptied the bin more often. Before dumping, she'd use clips to sift quickly, eyes scanning. Once, I buried a stained towel deep down. The next day, it was unearthed, perched on top, one corner unfolded. Later, I started flushing the towels down the toilet. The kitchen bin saw no more white wads.
The Afternoon Slumber
Around 2 PM, the drug's effects peak. If working from home, I'm at my desk then. But words on the screen blur, overlap. I know it's time. Save. Shut down. Walk to the living room. Lie on the leather sofa. Close my eyes. Consciousness dissolves. Waking, head heavy, mind foggy, minutes crawling past before clarity returns. Open my eyes. Marta is across the room. Cloth in hand, but unmoving. Standing. Watching me. Our eyes meet. She doesn't look away. I blink. "What time?" Pointing to the wall clock: 3:15. "I fell asleep." "Sleep deep," she states. "Yes." Trying to rise. Legs weak. Sit back down.
NEXT >>