It's
black and white chequerboard
linoleum, and I like to play
hopscotch on it when
I go to my refrigerator.
It has been witness to every dramatic scene in our house, from good to bad, but mainly the abuse of the appliances - drunken singing to the sensitive toaster, the atom-bomb-like-fireball that was our grill when we hadn't cleaned it in weeks, the beating of the freezer door when it refused to shut - it's not her fault, we haven't defrosted the poor thing since we moved in, apart from one frenzied hammer attack that made the kitchen look like the arctic in august.
It has borne all this bravely and in silence, but I'm sure it has something to say about the flinging-of-the kettle. It's staring at me accusingly.
The girl I live with likes to think she is depressed. You ask gently if you can help, leave little happy notes attatched to little trinkets you spent hours trailing round the shops for, thinking that they just might lift her spirits (after all, you can't), stock up on her favourite food.
After two weeks of this, you find her in the kitchen rocking back and forth in the pitch-black kitchen at six am, and your enquiring comment as to what she's doing there prompts a look that says -
'I don't appreciate you asking, I found the notes condescending and patronising, the presents were cheap and nasty, and I threw them out the window at four am, along with the ice cream. Go see, they're all in a heap in the garden...'
At which point she rises, grabs the kettle and throws it aross the kitchen. It ends its graceful trajectory in the sink, smashing all to pieces.
The lino and I stare at her in silent incomprehension as she sweeps past and into her room. The slam of her door says 'The End' in a way she clearly can't. I stare at the floor pattern - it stares at me.
Just gone to get some refreshment from the kitchen, and the lino's still there, still staring at me accusingly.
Am considering carpet...