Holy hell do I love this scene.  I want to make it into a short-short with more conflict and tension, but I love it as-is, too.  This was inspired by a fiction-writing activity written by Allison Joseph.  One of the names was inspired by Bob Drake, a couple were inspired by Italo Calvino, one was inspired by some spam email that I got, and one was inspired by someone who would sue me if this story wasn’t completely absurd.

Always Melting

Greenwich presses his right hand up the gooey kitchen cabinet, reshaping it.  As always, it’s melting, and his job is to make sure it all stays together.  Johnson works on the sink.  The silver faucet shines as he curves both hands along it, congealing it back into its umbrella-handle shape.  Creepstone told Greenwich yesterday that Johnson is planning on quitting their kitchen-continuation job, and although Creepstone hadn’t heard that from Johnson, he usually has his facts straight.

A bubble imposes itself through the floor, and Greenwich presses it back into the smooth wood.  In the dining room, the kitchen table starts to sag in the middle, but the stovetop’s black knobs have fallen into a long drip that almost touches the floor.  If either one touches the floor, they might fuse together permanently.  Greenwich hates fixing the stoveknobs.  Greenwich rushes into the dining room.  “Johnson,” he says; “squish up the stoveknobs!”

“Dammit, Greenwich—leave the dining room to Carlos!  That’s his job!”

“I don’t know where he is, Johnson, and I’m busy.  Look at this bulge!”  It approaches his face like a car would, leaking air from its tires, while he’s changing oil.  Johnson did that to Greenwich, once, as a joke: he punctured all of the car tires while Greenwich was underneath.  He slid out just before the car crushed him.  That was all fun and games, but they’re at work, and there’s no time to dilly-dally.  The wood table feels waxy against his palms as he pushes it back up like a big button and then smoothes it out.

“I hate fixing the stoveknobs,” Johnson says, but scoops up the black plastic drips two at a time and mashes them against their steel holders.  Once he’s mashed the plastic together he reshapes them back into knobs.

Greenwich strolls back into the kitchen and presses the refrigerator’s cold metal back into place without looking.  He brushes his hand along it, feeling for any other melts.

Johnson crouches under the sink, fixing the pipes.

“Nice plumber crack,” Greenwich says.

“Why don’t you fix the light.”

“Oh, shit.”

The lights are recessed in the ceiling: there are four silver tubes with lightbulbs inside.  One of the lightbulbs is coiling toward the ground.  The Dasukes, the rich bastards who own the place, always use those damn fluorescent lightbulbs.  Not only do the things hum when everything else gets real quiet, but they always coil when it melts.  It’s weird that the coils don’t fuse together.  That’s what gravity should do to them.

Greenwich hefts a chair from the dining room.  “Quick, Johnson: grab the light before it touches the floor!”

“Do your own damn work—I got problems of my own,” he says, with three fingers scooping up tiny drips from a drawer and his left arm stretched to the refrigerator handle.

Greenwich dives at the lightbulb and palms its long, white point.  It coils back up when he presses against it and stands on the chair and pushes it back into place.  Johnson hasn’t looked at Greenwich all day.  He’s always an asshole, but even more so today.  They’ve worked together for years, so if he’s quitting, he should make the most of it, unless he’s sick of Greenwich.

“Dumbledor was telling me they’re getting an espresso machine put in next month,” Greenwich says.

“What do you care about that?”

“Just making conversation, Johnson—you don’t have to be such an ass.”

“No, Greenwich: I want to know why you’d care about the meltin’ espresso machine,” Johnson says, but then Mr. Dasuke steps into the kitchen.  They’re not allowed to talk when the Dasukes are around unless the Dasukes speak to them first.

“Good morning, Greenwich,” Mr. Dasuke says, as his chin falls down toward his chest.

Johnson steps over and glares at Greenwich, raising and shaping Mr. Dasuke’s chin back together.

“Good morning, Mr. Dasuke,” Greenwich says.

“Why thank you, Johnson.  And how are you this morning?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Coffee had been ready for ten minutes.  When Mr. Dasuke pours it into his mug, the bottom bulges.  Greenwich grabs it until Mr. Dasuke has all he needs.  He leans against the sink, sipping his coffee and staring out into his back yard.  The bottom of his pink robe melts and Johnson fixes it.  He stands there sipping his coffee, as he does every morning, until Quaffwaffaq and Xillthlix replace their shifts.