His girlfriend was depressed and jealous and wouldn’t let him out of her sight. She was crazed with the conviction that the two of them were an item no matter what. He married her, then woke up drunk or drugged twenty years later, still smarting from the previous night’s fight, bleak with guilt that he still couldn’t make her, or himself, happy—even though he had given up everything to make it happen. Well, almost everything. Yes, he married her when he wasn’t so sure, moved where she wanted to live, and yes, bought the house and took the well-paying job that bored him, but kept at it because it was what she wanted and they had the mortgage to keep up with. He did it all, and she still wasn’t happy. But the one thing he hadn’t given up, wouldn’t stop, would never quit and was absolutely non-negotiable was always waiting in the basement. His wife knew better than to ask, and had certainly never been allowed to see it, or interrupt him when he was working. Still, to be certain, he had installed multiple locks and doors in the back of the basement. These would have to be passed through to get to the work room. The first door was a cheap hollow wood door with a simple combination lock. Behind that was a sliding metal fire door with a passcode and a thumbprint reader. Next was a steel blast door with a retinal scanner, and a voice identification box. Next was a tiny door, like in Alice in Wonderland, just large enough to crawl through. Then a swaying curtain of clattering ceramic beads that analyzed skin particles off your hand or arm or shoulder, and that sprouted poison barbs if they registered any DNA but his own. The final door was like the first one, a hollow fiberboard slab with a metal hasp and a combination lock. This door opened into a blank white room, the work room. It was softly lit with a stretch of low, indirect lighting behind one wall’s baseboard. A single stuffed armchair sat in the middle, made of an inviting brushed material the color of seashells. The best thing about the chair was its base, dark wood rockers instead of legs. He sat down and rocked, while studying the picture on the pinewood table opposite the chair. At exact eye-level from a seated position, he faced a black and white photograph of his wife. She was looking directly at the camera, wearing no particular expression and no makeup, her hair pulled back and fastened into a bun. It was a new photo. He was always careful to keep it up to date.
The rocking chair made a pleasing soft bump on the wood floor but otherwise it was still. He was safe from any disturbance, free to see his wife without worry or interruption.
