Daymare. That forty thieves had had their way with my apartment. Funnier still, they hadn’t even had to chant a little jibber-jabber to enter. I had left the keys in the door. Snickering, the chief turns the knob counter-clockwise and lets them all in, one by one. They all look like they share a mother or a father and an evil grin. They run around the house, like noisy neighbor kids, chewing on wires, tripping the desks, strangling the lamps. And when they are done, they leave in a file, like order were so fucking necessary now.
I rub my eyes and pockets awake to check for my keys and sanity. Neither. I dash home.
The winds, a howling. Through the doors and windows and broken everything. A livewire buzzes in a corner, while doltish ladybugs lie fried beside it. The food’s all licked clean. Literally. I stand amid crinkled wrappers and opened cans and cracked Tupperware and feathery cushions and soiled sheets. In one gulp, the tears rush and burn.
The key’s still in the door, in the harmless clinking of the two bells, a lizard and a name tag that are attached to the keychain.
On second or rather the fifth thought, I turn around and bury my keys and hear them chunk into a growing-grown potato. Safer. Baked keys for dinner in a few weeks.
As dramatic as dreams, as I would like it to be, summers are not. Bleh.
No thieves, no broken stuff and no key dinners.