He was late. We sat, having our coffee and trying to read the Sunday newspaper, as he tore around the house getting ready for work. It was a little like trying to read while sitting in the breakdown lane on the freeway, with cars whizzing by every few seconds.
As I began reading the book reviews, I noticed that his rushing about had become somewhat more agitated, and I could hear drawers and closets being opened and then slammed closed. He rushed into the living room, and began feel around in the sofa cushions and looking under the furniture, mumbling to himself as he did. His father looked at me from over the top of his glasses and raised his eyebrows before going back to the sports section.
Finally, he burst into the kitchen, looking a bit manic. He cast his eyes over the counter-tops, and then yanked open the refrigerator.
“Stop!” I said. “Whatever are you doing?”
“I’m late! I’m late! And I can’t find my keys!” he exclaimed frantically.
“Well, slow down a minute, and let’s think about this. Did you look in your room?”
“Yes, yes, of course I looked in my room. I’ve looked everywhere! I can’t find them!”
“Did you check your pockets?” I asked, ever the sweet voice of reason.
He stopped thrashing around the kitchen for a moment and, shooting me a look that just screamed Mother! in his best sarcastic teenaged tone, he thrust his hands into his pockets. When he pulled them out, there in his right hand were errant keys. He stood looking at them, lying there innocently in his palm, for a long moment, and then said,
“What a concept!”
I wrote this as my first submission to the Corruption of Evidence Challenge hosted by The Tenth Daughter of Memory.