The Wave (short story)

“Hey, you're home early.”

“It’s 6 o’clock,” Becky nodded to the mantle clock for confirmation, as she flew through the door, “I get home at the same time everyday. What’s wrong?” She glanced at the sink and sighed loudly.

Jeff followed her eyes while he protested, “No, it’s four—” he stared in disbelief; the clock read 6:03.

As she set her briefcase and purse down on the ottoman, the dog greeted her with happy licks. The beast desperately needed a bath, probably after playing all day in the dusty dirt outside. Becky sighed again, but quieter. Did she think to herself be quieter out of fear of me darting dirty looks at her, yelling with frustration?  Or is she quiet out of fear of herself? Of getting too upset? I want to make sure I don’t hurt her feelings; that is social anxiety for you, the fear of hurting others.

Jeff went to the microwave, finding not even a cold potato awaiting him. He found a dirty plate laid in the sink, with sour cream and a cheesy residue on the fork placed on top. He was as baffled as Becky seemed to be, but her expression quickly shifted to disappointment.

“You promised you’d be better! You told our therapist yesterday—YESTERDAY—that you’d be better at cleaning up after yourself!” She slowly recanted what the session was about the day prior, as Jeff was still trying to collect himself in the midst of the confusion. His stomach rumbled with a recognizable emptiness erupting so acutely in his body, he was afraid that she could hear it.

He started to tell his wife about the time lapse mishap when a faint familiar beep began in the background, interrupting his train of thought. He woke up on the couch, wiping drool from his mouth. Blurry-eyed, he glanced at the same clock on the mantle. It was just before four o’clock. His baked potato was done in the microwave.

What is real? He thought, his mind raced with contemplations.

He opened the microwave door, where a very hot, very done potato seethed. Jeff poked the potato to reconfirm its heat. He closed the door, pushed COOK TIME for another two minutes, and watched the potato scream with squeals of steam. For one hundred and twenty seconds, he watched the potato revolve like a depressing carousel, stopping again, hazed and confused. Besides its forked-holes he had stabbed twenty minutes prior, nothing else miraculous had happened.

Nothing out of the ordinary.