Thursday

Making the final turn into my driveway, I feel the weight of the day beginning to lift.

My mind wanders and I cruise through my ritual of returning home. Park car, engine off, sigh inexplicably, keys out of the ignition. My hand is turning the doorknob seventy seconds later.

Predictably, obviously, inevitably, this is where my problems start.

In my living room, besides my faded beige sofa and the chipped bookcase, is this tale’s catalyst.

Three clowns, all precariously balanced on a single unicycle. Their faces contorted with effort. Beads of sweat marred their blue and white face paint. The three sway and gasp as one, but they do not fall, they dare not fall.

I find the performance so captivating I notice I am holding my breath. I too, have become part of the act. The unicycle swings back and forth beneath the clowns, like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

It had been a longer day than usual working at the timeline correction facility. Hah hah.

I was too exhausted to even chuckle at the tired old joke. Although I did my utmost to ensure my work never came home with me, quantum entanglement at some stage was virtually unavoidable. The only thing to do at this point was to sit quietly nearby and observe.

I eased myself into my girlfriend’s armchair, taking care not to cause any sudden movements that might startle the trio of Pierrot’s. Resting on the chair, was a book I had not seen before. It was old and roughly bound. It had likely been rescued from a hospice shop for a few cents by my bibliophilic paramour.

As soon as I opened the book, a vast jet of water cascaded from within. It was cold, and salty. Before I can snap the covers shut, a live fish squirms from between the covers and lands in my lap. The clowns barely give me a glance.

I holler, from the shock, the cold, the eleven-pound snapper slapping against my stomach. I force the book shut and read the cover.

Fishing, made easy.

It’s nearly five thirty. My girlfriend will be home soon. On the one hand, she quite likes snapper. On the other hand, I didn’t really fancy explaining the clowns. They still hadn’t noticed me. In fact, aside from occasionally grunting or murmuring “easy, eaaaasy” to each other. They had barely made a sound at all. The fish is gasping for air.

Across the room, behind the clowns, I spot my car keys. How did they get there? I wonder. There’s no chance of getting to them. The clowns are moving far too much to risk getting around them. I decide to search for a bucket to save the fish.

I hear a car in the driveway. I begin to think of ways to stall for time. The clowns nearly topple over. All four of us regain composure in the same moment. Without hesitation, I toss the bucket, fish and all at the clowns, along with one of my shoes and a vase of flowers from the coffee table. The clowns begin juggling them all with a cry of “HUP!” and I rush to the front door just in time to shriek “Happy anniversary!” to my travel-weary and now startled girlfriend.

Her eyes narrow as she spies the clowns. She dumps a grocery bag into my arms and shrugs off her coat. Striding into the bathroom I hear her turn on the shower. She calls out “They really don’t pay you well enough for this”.