The Sharpest One

Kelsey's kitchen is wildly unfamiliar, but apparently we're old pals, because I'm setting the table with a stack of mismatched plates while guests chatter in the living room. Tapestries drape the long planks, almost touching the seats of chairs that almost match.

"Lonnie's on the way," she says, hanging up a corded phone. "I think he's bringing his new girlfriend."

I don't know Lonnie or any of his girlfriends, but the plates are heavy, and there are a lot of them.

"That one's mine," Kelsey says, suddenly beside me. She swaps the plastic-handled steak knife I've just laid down for one with a worn wooden grip. "Don't judge me. It's the sharpest one I've got." She lays it at the head of the table where there's the only chair with arms.

I laugh and look at her for the first time. I don't know her, not at all.

The cuckoo clock strikes seven at full volume, and I startle so hard water dribbles down my chin. I wipe it with the back of my hand and look down. Five fingers. I look again. Six.

Oh. I know this space. It's no kitchen.

The moment I remember I'm asleep in my bed, the room grays out while I arrive fully, staying calm so as not to scare it away.

So I sit at the far end of the table near Kelsey, across from an empty bench, and breathe like a woman at the dentist.

Lonnie's voice arrives before he does.

"Tell Derek he imagined that meeting," he says into his phone from the entryway. "Tell him we're all worried about him. Kindly." A pause. "Sign it. I don't care what it costs them. Them? They'll relocate. People love to relocate."

He rounds the corner, laughing. His unmistakable accent. "The ocean thing is a feature, not a bug. The more it rises, the better the alternative looks. Exactly. Earth-world problems."

He hangs up and turns to the table like he's walking onstage. Behind him steps the new girlfriend, beautiful in the way of rendered, absent things.

"Everyone, Ava. Ava, everyone."

"What a lovely home," Ava says. "So remote, right, Lon?"

He says nothing, just takes the seat across from me and taps the bench beside him for Ava to sit.

He makes a magic trick out of opening and spreading his linen napkin across his lap. "So, what do you do?" he asks me, tearing a roll.

"I teach writing."

"Oh, interesting. That's going away," he says, like my warranty's expired. "Do you know what writing will look like in three, maybe four, years? Hm. Ava, tell them what writing will look like in three or four years."

Ava's on her phone.

I scoop shepherd's pie onto my blue gingham plate. Stab a roast slab from the crockery and drip it onto the porcelain.

"You can use mine," Kelsey whispers, glancing at the empty slot where my cutlery should be.

I don't ask, but it's already in my grip, warm.

The cuckoo ticks once more, then stops. Dead. Lonnie's phone rings. It's Ava, accidentally. She blinks.

I'm counting fingers. Every one of them, a god. They rearrange around Kelsey's knife, settling in.

The guests are quiet, and Ava's gone. Kelsey sits witnessing from her armchair. She whistles a silent tune. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, I think. She won't judge me.

"Pass the salt," Lonnie says, neither question nor demand, just what happens.

I don't even raise my arm, just plunge the blade into Lonnie's hand bones so deep that the table claims the knife. It's only a breath or two until he's basking in the afterglow of having met his maker.