I went down my hallway, glancing off my kitchen, and into the living room. I had to grab something and bring it to my office. The fridge made a slight, gurgle noise, then stopped. I stopped. That's odd, I thought. Refrigerators don't usually do something just for a few seconds. I went into the living room and got what I was after, my laptop, and went back to the hallway. "Gurgle," the fridge went again.
Now I was concerned. Maybe it's in need of repair? I've had it for a while. You never do anything to refrigerators, except sequester tubs of cream cheese in the back and fossilized lettuce in the crisper drawer. I stopped to see if it would do it again. Waited. Nothing. Then when I shrugged and turned back down the hallway, it kicked in full time.
Oh, my God! My refrigerator is flirting with me!
I've lived in this house for decades, much of it alone. It's been my sanctuary. My fortress of solitude. My, well. The place I hate to clean and generally use as a shield against homelessness. OK. I do stuff like build cabinets, put down hardwood floors, and stuff like that but I never expected it to evolve sentience and get a crush on me! Now, really? Who would ever expect a thing like that? A man's house is his castle, not his mistress.
"Jonathan," she said.
"What? Hey! Who's there?" I said. "And how are you talking to me? My cell phone's on silent!"
"Look under your arm," she said. "It's your laptop that's doing the talking."
Oh, great. Technology came to life and it's horny. This has to be some sort of a dream or something. Did Connecticut pass legal marijuana and am I on an epic stoner high? This is not how it was in the sixties. Houses were full of potheads and refrigerators were full of beer. And dead lettuce. No architecture sex!
Maybe I imagined it. That's what we tell ourselves when some shit happens that we can't process. I went to my office. I balanced my checkbook, or something. "You can balance me, dearie!"
"Yah!" I squelched and fell to the floor. The marquette I had built into the parquet floor took on an erotic form. "Yeesh!" I said, deliriously, and scrambled to the door. My house is going to kill me. But not before- The bedroom! Uh-uh. Not going there. I can see inside. The bedsheets are billowing sensually. They haven't billowed like that in years! Or had any reason to.
Down the hall. The fridge was fanning its doors. The cabinets were open and waving bowls and kicking pots and pans in a raucous can-can dance. The oven was up to steam.
"Just give in, honey." It was the laptop. I flew into the living room. The TV was on. It's playing, A Clockwork Orange? God, I didn't know my house was so sick!
Out onto the front yard. When did my house get two dormers on the front roof? Though they do look inviting. "I can play you some of those web sites you like."
"Who are you? The NSA?" I shouted and ran for my car. Inside. OK. Start up. Head on the steering wheel. Breath. Safe. Get outahere.
"Want me to take you for a ride?"
Oh, no! Not you, too!