Coming Home

Coming Home

Sometimes it's like stepping into an asylum, a sane man amongst the
mad. Or walking into a party dripping blood, the host's head hanging
from your hand. You get their attention, open-mouthed, suddenly
shocked. Like the time on holiday, with all the apartments the same.
You left to buy ice-cream, returned, took the wrong path, one block
over to the left. And stood, three steps into the room: two kids (not
yours), a woman in bra and pants combing wet hair, the husband emerging
from the kitchenette, carving knife in hand and ice-cream carton
frosting dribbling down your arm, drip, dripping from the elbow.