fridge

I opened the door. The light came on, porcelain bright. I blinked. Blinked again. Bare shelves. Naked racks. Nothing on the door. Nothing in the crisper or plastic sliding bins on the bottom. A minimalist's dream. How about the freezer? Same. Not even ice. Yesterday was different. Milk, butter, deli sliced roast beef and turkey, mayo, ketchup, mustard, apple juice, lettuce, string beans, cherries, rice pudding, whipped cream in a can (expired), skyr yogurt (raspberry, strawberry, mixed berries with acai, vanilla), half and half, fresh gazpacho given to me as leftovers from the party, thawing chicken cutlets, carrots, Pepsi (the small cans), Pellegrino carbonated water. That's all I can remember. It was only yesterday, but that's the best I can do. The freezer? French vanilla ice cream (mostly gone; freezer burn crystals), marinated chicken cutlets, chicken wings, ice packs, ice cubes, soup, mixed vegetables, Indian food for one, hamburger patties, buttered corn. All frozen solid.

That's the best I can recall. It wasn't much, I admit. But gone. Disappeared.

All of it.

Where'd it all go?

Who took it and what did they do with it, and why?

Things just don't disappear, don't flee to another dimension, despite the standard jokes about socks missing from the dryer. That's funny. This isn't.

I feel violated.

No one has a key, as far as I can tell. She gave me her keys back. Finally. I made her. I have them on my bureau. She too. I made her return them. They're in the drawer. Maintenance? I asked. The office downstairs? They said no, of course not, clearly insulted. 

Could she, or her, have secretly made duplicate keys? Easily. I could have done the same. That's too easy a plot line. Too facile. Obvious. I don't buy it. Not because of intuition or intentional blindness, but because a) they would be easy targets as suspects b) the cameras; the cameras would show them (more on that later c) why now? why now after all these years? d) we were on such good terms, unless it was a charade, a facade e) if she, or her, were to stealthily intrude now, to what good? Cui bono, as they say in Latin

If it was her, or her, what was the trigger? And why this and not the money in the envelope for all the world to see, left untouched because I had it boobytrapped?

Someone, singular or plural, did this. I don't mean aliens. Someone.

Not as a joke. Some joke, eh? No, as a subtle and sophisticated mindfuck. I take that back, not so subtle. No note. No message smeared in lipstick on a mirror. No fingerprints, I suppose. What's the difference? You think the police are going to dust my fucking refrigerator for prints? Really. Because my fridge is empty? Emptiness was my default until a few weeks ago. (There's an aphorism for you.) I'd resolved to eat better, cook for myself, be healthier, save money.

Him? Him, you say? I can't see it. Talk about a flash from the past, the past before the past. He was a bully then, and might be now, but what would be the point? What would be the gain? If anything, it should be reversed. I should be stalking him and performing some intricate, elaborate indecipherable mindfuck scheme.

Here's what bothers me. There's nothing on the cameras, nothing in the lobby or in the hallway or by my door. Nothing. I sat in the office for 4 hours, winding, rewinding, stopping, freezing, and slo-moing. Nothing. Explain that.

Them. Them, you say? Impossible. They were only in my class for one semester, and then they went their separate ways, as disparate as dandelion seeds parachuted from seedheads into the whipping wind in a dozen directions.  

You. You. I thought of you first. You knew I would. That's pretty clever, if it was you. I could almost laugh. Almost. If it was you, I'm dying to know how you tricked the cameras. Hack the system and photoshop the footage? Not you, unless you got some professional help. From him.

Don't worry.

I have your keys.

Keep an eye on your toothbrush.