Perfume
The toilet seat was down…
There should be no reason for the toilet seat to be down; he certainly hadn’t put it down. He lived alone and, when you live alone you can leave the toilet seat in whatever position you see fit. There was a time when the seat was always down (unless he forgot - an act the invited extreme overreaction,) but those days had long since passed.
But the toilet seat was still down…
It must have fallen down. These things were subject to gravity just like anything else. It must have fallen down. There was no other potential explanation for it, nothing rational anyway. Gravity exerted its dominance over matter and slammed the toilet seat down. Elementary my dear Watson.
However, there is the question of the perfume…
What a stupid idea. It was only a bottle of perfume, not a religious artifact. Even if it were, it was still just an object. Objects do not have ill intentions. Objects do not have agendas. Religious bullshit or not, objects aren’t a danger to people. People are a danger to people, and sometimes they use objects to focus that danger.
But she didn’t think so. She saw it as something more than an object…
Just because it came from overseas? That’s racist, really. Oh no, it came from a country of heathens! It must have some of the heathen Mumbo-Jumbo on it. Quick Mom, get your Bible! We got some prayin’ to do! Oh Lord, save us from the heathens!
But that was what she did, wasn’t it? When he told her where he had gotten the perfume, she lost it. She had already taken a deep breath of it, letting it fill her lungs, and loved the scent. Loved it so much that he watched his stock rise in her eyes. Rise so high that, if the stock didn’t split, love was gonna shoot out of her head like a sprinkler. But then she asked where he had gotten it.
Things were going so well until that point…
He wasn’t to shop in Chinatown. Just because he didn’t understand the weight of spirituality didn’t make it weightless. Doo-dads from other countries sometimes could come back with…Mumbo-Jumbo. Mumbo-Jumbo poured into them by agents of the so-called “enemy,” something that sounded like McCarthyism to him. But he would never say that to her. It didn’t matter now, but back then it did; back then he would never disparage her beliefs in front of her.
But he would, apparently, go shopping in Chinatown…
When you think about objects imbibed with Mumbo-Jumbo, you think of back alleys and smoke pouring ominously out of sewer grates. You think of streets illuminated by thousands of neon signs and men with long mustaches. You don’t think of a well-lit, neo-modern Chinese restaurant. You don’t hear gift shop and think lobby desk covered in knick-knacks. And you certainly don’t think Oh, I bet there is a pretty white girl running it. But that was the reality of it. And, let’s be honest, a white girl wouldn’t peddle a potentially damaging spiritual object to unsuspecting tourists; she’s one of us!
Now who is the racist? Asshole.
Back home, none of this mattered to her. Do you know what this could have done to us…done to me? And that’s when it happened. She took the vial and threw it on the floor, shattering it. Its sweet scent filled the room. She got onto her knees and started praying.
Praying loudly.
Time had taken the words from him, but his heart had held onto the message, it was very clear. The Lord protects this house. The Lord protects this family. The Lord protects this unborn child. Anything here that doesn’t answer to The Lord be cast out of this place. May the enemy be cast from this place. Satan has no place here. This place is The Lord’s, and he shall keep it.
He didn’t answer to The Lord…what did that mean for him?
His answer would come months later. Months after the perfume smell had finally dissipated from the room. Months after they found out that The Lord would have one fewer to protect. The pain was too much for her to bear. This place was no longer theirs, it was his.
She blamed him. Blamed him and that fucking perfume.
But that was the past. That didn’t matter anymore. Life goes on, he went on. The song that played in his heart when he thought of her had quieted. That was how it worked. You live, you learn, and you start over.
And over.
There was still the matter of this toilet seat. Gravity was the rational cause. Perhaps it would be better not to dwell too much on other the potentials. Just because the song had gotten quieter didn’t mean that it had stopped playing entirely. The pain still traveled in waves, and sometimes they crashed into him with the force of a semi-truck.
No sense in playing in traffic.
He lifts the seat, placing it in the upright position and resting it there. After finishing, he tests the seat, pulling it towards him gently. It falls backward against the tank with a quiet thunk. It would have taken a lot of gravity to pull this down, but what else could it be?
You aren’t a Communist, are you son?
He washes his hands, turns off the light, and walks towards the bedroom. His footsteps echo off the hardwood floors and now-empty walls in the hallway. He stops and briefly looks at a portion of empty wall. This was where their engagement picture hung. He smiles briefly, and walks into his bedroom.
Gravity was the only potential culprit. Seemingly impossible given the physics he himself had tested, but the only plausible answer. Mumbo-Jumbo didn’t live here; at least not anymore.
But then, sometime in the night, the toilet seat fell again.
