Steven sits up straight on the couch, awakened from his afternoon nap by the loud shook-clang of the garage door chain engaging below. He had fallen asleep in the extra room upstairs, which doubles as his office. The house shakes as the door gurgles open along its rusty brown rails.

Eliza will appreciate my help bringing in the groceries, given how frail she is when her batteries are run down.

He reaches down for his shoes; they are not there. Kierkegaard was right. Sometimes one cannot tell the difference between God’s will and a trick. 

Socks will have to do.

He rocks back and forth to escape from the cotton candy couch, two feet landing with a splashy thud onto the goulash rug. He hopes Eliza hears it, so she knows he’s coming. He trudges through the calf-deep potato soup, out the office door, and to the top of the stairs.

A thousand fleshy, winking eyes line the walls and ceiling of the two-story open stairwell. The steps are covered in lachrymal fluid. He grabs the soft macaroni railing with both hands as he steps gingerly onto the first slimy stair.

He slips, kerranging to the bottom, his coccyx in his throat.

* * * *

An exhausted Eliza pulls into the driveway and clicks the garage door open. Her compact SUV slides smoothly into the spotless garage. She checks her makeup in the rearview mirror, pops open the driver-side door, and slips out of the black leather car seat onto the pristine concrete floor. 

She hears a dull thud from upstairs. She knows how hard it is for him to get up off the couch.

What a sweetheart – coming down to help me – even in his condition. The extra dose of medicine I gave him earlier must be helping the pain.

She beeps the remote to open the rear door. She glides to the back of the car and grabs two grocery bags. 

She hears a series of thumps from inside the house. She drops the groceries and quickly accelerates up the ramp on her shiny, metallic wheels.