The Forks

Juliet Bonci

 

 

"Where do you keep the forks?" He asked me.

 

"Oh, I just keep them in that drawer over there." I said, not wanting to specify anything. He stood in the entrance hall of our kitchen, looking darker than before. We had a faulty light in the kitchen over the counter. That's why the electrician was here... except he had something weird about him, and the fact that he asked where the forks were gave me a slight shiver down my spine. I decided to not mention the forks again. He stood on the counter and proceeded to unscrew the light bulb.

 

"Well, sir I think you've got a torn wire here..." He stated.

"Oh, you just do whatever you need to to fix it..." I looked up at his name tag, "Jeff. I will just be in the other room; tell me when you're done."

"Alrighty," said Jeff as he picked up a pair of pliers and started cutting wires. I walked through the hallway to the right and stepped into my office. Closing the door, I sat down and began to think.

I pulled out my journal and wrote a list of thoughts:

 

What was Jeff planning to do with forks?

Should I have looked at who I was letting in the door before I opened it?

He was the electrician I had called before though...

I am home by myself, a grown man! Who am I kidding? I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

But should I have locked the door to my office?

It was at that moment I heard a slight rumble, and the electricity cut off. I heard Jeff mutter a curse and then, with a great clamor, look through the drawers of the kitchen.   

 

"I SAID, WHERE DO YOU KEEP THE FORKS?!" Jeff yelled. He sounded hysterical.

 

I couldn't reply, couldn't speak or think. This man was not here to fix the light in my kitchen; he was here for me. My office was dark and I couldn't see much. It's too bad that it's a rainy day. I could barely see outside. With every second, it just grew darker. Hearing the angry footsteps of the electrician pounding the floor, I knew he'd find me eventually. I heard his heavy breathing and feet pounding the floors outside of my office... until the door knob turned ever so gently. He poked his head in, dark hair in his face and sweat dripping down his forehead. I noticed a steak knife in his left hand and a cloth napkin tucked in the collarbone of his shirt.

 

"It's 6:35 pm," he stated. He repeated the phrase, sweeter this time, with a smile. "Where do you keep the forks?"