Man Underground by Mark Hummel

Author:Mark Hummel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2023-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

15

I went back to bed. When I woke next and entered the main room, I was surprised to see it was dark outside. I turned and made for the bathroom. When I reentered the main room, I turned on the light switch and was startled to find Monika seated on the floor in front of my recliner.

“You should close the door when you pee,” she said. “It’s really loud.”

“I live alone,” I said. “I don’t even have a dog to offend.”

“Maybe you should rectify that.”

“What?”

“The dog.”

“Dogs have to eat and piss and be walked.”

“You should still rectify the door.”

“The door?”

“Closing it.”

“So that my non-existent dog doesn’t have to hear me?”

“Good manners.”

“Given how much time I spend at state dinners and high tea.”

“Manners are manners.”

“Like the etiquette rule that suggests you shouldn’t let yourself into someone’s home.”

“I needed to check on you.”

“What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“Thinking.”

“I’m so glad I could accommodate you.”

“I liked it better with the lights off.”

“This is why I live alone,” I said, and in anger I shut the lights off with a swipe of my hand at the switch. I bulled forward into the sudden dark in the direction of the kitchen. My good knee contacted sharply with the table edge and a book hit the floor with a thud. I cursed and drew back from the collision. The sudden movement hurt my ribs.

“You’d think you’d know your way around better,” Monika said, her voice like an invisible balloon floating in the darkness. She must have heard my labored breathing or I had emitted some painful sound against my will, for her voice lost its sarcasm when she asked, “Are you okay?”

“Damn it,” I seethed, trying to take shallow breaths.

After a bit of fumbling, she turned on the lamp near where she was seated moments before.

“I’m fine,” I stammered. “Did you make coffee at least?” I asked, willing myself to move on to the kitchen.

“Coffee. It’s exactly the sort of monoculture crop that takes advantage of growers in developing and underdeveloped nations.”

“I just wanted a morning cup of coffee, not a beatnik geopolitical platform.”

“It’s nighttime.”

“Pardon?”

“You said morning cup of coffee. It’s Saturday night. You slept all day again.”

“What time is it?”

“Like ten. Ten-thirty.”

“Oh,” I said. I felt oddly defeated.

“Sit down. I’ll make your coffee.”

“Without a lecture?”

She was opening cabinet doors. She frowned when she removed a canister of the grocery store shelf variety. “You really should buy organic. And you should look for free trade brands,” she said. “It’s a new century, man. There are organic whole bean suppliers that cut out the middleman and provide the growers better profit margins. They reinvest locally where the beans are grown.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I read things.”

“Just not textbooks.”

She looked angry. “More than textbooks. I don’t sleep that well, so I read a lot. And I don’t drink coffee.”

“What do you drink?”

“Mostly water.”

“I’m sure I’m in good hands then,” I said as I watched her pouring coffee into the filter without measuring. “What are you doing here on a Saturday night?”

“I told you.

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