"I can do that," Aaron said.
"Wonderful. I'll be back in ten. Bye now." Melissa gave a little scrunch-nosed smile as she left, and waved farewell by wiggling her fingers. Aaron waved goodbye in a similar manner, not thinking anything of it. Melissa slung her purse over her shoulder and departed, car keys in hand.
Aaron walked off to the kitchen, and wouldn't you know it? The kitchen table was a mess. Papers, and magazines, and half-finished glasses of water, and mail, and pens, and wadded-up napkins, and who knows what else underneath all that. There could be pirate treasure. Aaron shook his head in disapproval. How could three grown adults make such a mess in such a short amount of time?
Aaron started with the easy stuff, tending to the remnants left on the table from breakfast. A plate, a bowl, some silverware, two glasses and a coffee mug. They all went into the sink, and the napkins went into the garbage. The newspapers were second, gathered and dropped into the recycling bin. Why Jeff insisted on reading the newspaper every morning puzzled Aaron. Maybe its because Jeff was 46 and Aaron was only 25, but it made Jeff seem like a dinosaur from a bygone era.
Melissa was much more trendy, choosing an e-reader over the dead trees. And sure enough, it was next on the pile to be cleared. Aaron was careful not to drop the delicate electronic device, but failed to see its charging cord. It was coiled up and mostly hidden beneath a piece of notebook paper. As Aaron moved the e-reader, the cord fell to the ground. Aaron stooped to pick it up, noticing his shoes. He could have sworn we was wearing his blue sneakers today. Instead, he was wearing black Merrells, the kind without laces. "I'm only 26 and I'm already going senile," Aaron muttered to himself. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and resumed cleaning.
Nearing the end of the pile, Aaron amassed the various pens, pencils, sharpies, and tossed them in the junk drawer. All that was left was a leather pocketbook. Aaron looked at the mysterious artifact, both unrecognizable and yet familiar. He popped open the small latch and looked at the contents: about thirty dollars in cash, a gift certificate to the coffee shop, a loyalty card to a local sandwich shop, a frequent-visitor punch card for the frozen yogurt store, a library card, two credit cards, a AAA card, and a driver's license.
Oh of course. This was Aaron's pocketbook. It must have fallen out of his pocket, and somebody placed it on the table for him to find. Actually, how could that be the case? The name was a misnomer; the clutch wasn't actually supposed to be carried around in one's pockets. It was far too large. What's more, these shorts didn't have pockets. They sure were a ridiculous piece of clothing. Who makes gym shorts out of gray tweed anyways?
Aaron began replacing all the contents back in their respective places before noticing a small amount of schmutz on his Mastercard. It felt like a small amount of rubber cement. He gently rubbed the tacky substance off the card, realizing he was erasing his embossed name off the plastic card. Aaron stopped in shock. That wasn't right. Plastic just doesn't do that. Something is dreadfully wrong.
With an increased heart rate and anxiously agile fingers, Aaron flipped through the other cards. His name on the Visa was worn down and unreadable. The ink on his library card had run. The cursive writing on the loyalty cards were too scribbled to read. The AAA membership card had a huge crease over the name ever since he accidentally crushed it in his jacket pocket last April. All that was left was his driver's license. Aaron breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't know what he expected, or why he was so worried, but there was his name, plain as day: Aron Parsons. Age: 27. Place of residence: This house. Height: 5'4" Gender:... Well, his thumb was covering the spot marked gender, but he didn't need to verify that.
Aron slipped his wrist through the leather strap, unobservant of the clutch's gradual shift from black to mahogany. He set the pocketbook on the kitchen counter and examined the surroundings, making certain it wouldn't fall over or disappear under a second pile of junk again. As the color shifted once again, Aron was startled. Had something moved? Had his chestnut colored pocketbook just moved? Of course not, he chided himself. Then what did? Aaron rolled his eyes upwards. Of course. He blew a puff of air at a dangling hair draped over his eyes.
This was getting ridiculous. Aron excused himself to the bathroom and brushed his hair into a comfortable position. When he was satisfied with how it framed his face, he applied a few quick blasts of hairspray to keep it in position. The transition period between short and long hair was always the worst; when the hair just barely reaches the chin and can only be tamed in brief spurts before gravity and wind sends it willy-nilly. Aron cursed himself for ever getting it cut so short to begin with. Melissa was right; he could not pull off a pixie cut.
"I'm back," Melissa said, entering the front door. "Thank you so much for cleaning the table."
Aron checked his watch. The gold hands and glass cover had finished materializing, replacing the inelegant digital display. "Ten minutes exactly," Aron chuckled. Melissa gave another scrunch-nosed smile. Aron shot her one right back.
Where did Melissa run off to?
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