Untitled (Flash Fiction Pt 1)

Moving into the kitchen I begin to wonder again what I did wrong. Somehow all of this is my fault.

The clock on the stove is flashing and incorrect after suffering an earlier power-outage, but it's my only companion in this dark space at the moment. A green, flashing digital clock—insisting it's 4:24 instead of sometime past 10:00. Four hours and twenty four minutes ago the power came back on.

The stove was resurrected.

Time started over.

I reach for the touchpad on the stove and wonder exactly what time it really is. I need some kind of reference, my wrist watch or the endless ticker on one of those cable news shows people like so much—the ones with people talking over each other so no one really ever hears anything. It would be better if they relaxed a little. You get to be my age and you start to relax about everything. At some point time starts over.

You retire. You lose a wife or two.

You begin to see the big picture.

It's similar to what recovering alcoholics call a "moment of clarity," except it lasts for the rest of your life—which is actually kind of a second life. You get to be my age and you see things clearly. You see all of it, the whole goddamn mess, as something that makes sense.