Chapter 2 - The Geography of the Floor
The gold head of the hammer blurred as it descended.
It didn't hit flesh.
It missed the woman's beige shoe by three inches and slammed directly into the living room rug.
The impact sounded like a car door slamming underwater.
A shockwave of dust and aerosolized coffee droplets exploded upward, coating the cuffs of the man’s jeans.
The floorboards beneath the rug groaned, a deep, structural protest against the violence.
The woman’s chest collapsed inward.
She slid two inches down the wall, her fingernails scraping a faint white line into the floral wallpaper.
The man didn't lift the hammer again.
He let the steel handle drop to the floor.
It hit the ground with a dull, hollow clank.
He dropped to his knees, his jeans soaking up the spilled coffee.
His breathing was ragged, whistling through his teeth.
He grabbed the thick, braided edge of the rug with both hands.
His knuckles turned entirely white.
He leaned his body weight backward and pulled.
The rug tore away from the floor with the sound of a thousand tiny threads snapping at once.
It flipped over itself, hiding the coffee stain, and revealed the raw, scuffed oak floorboards underneath.
The wood was old.
It was covered in a layer of pale grey dust that hadn't seen the light in years.
The man knelt there, his chest heaving, staring at the empty wooden planks.
He placed one flat palm against the cold wood.
May you like
He waited.
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