Jenkins rattled about in his kitchenette. He was searching through the drawers for something he’d lost. He couldn’t quite remember what it was. Or where he’d put it. But he was sure that when he would eventually stumble across it. He’d remember. And he’d know that he had definitely found it. This was how most mornings started for Jenkins. He grumbled quietly to himself, shuffled around in his slippers whilst holding the walls and worktops tightly to steady himself and his hands. He would open the drawers and root around, unaware that the contents were spilling onto the floor. And open the next drawer. And root around. And so on. Jenkins was clever; he decided not to close the drawers. This way, he’d know which drawers had been checked.
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He soon grew tired and quickly forgot what he was searching for and why he was searching. Jenkins scratched his head and took his glasses off as he steadied himself slowly beside the table into the little, kitchenette chair (a white, plastic garden chair he’d found one night on a neighbours lawn and dragged back home). Within five minutes, Jenkins had fallen asleep with his head on the lightwood table next to his morning’s cup of tea.
Jenkins’ eyes peeped open and scanned the kitchenette for a moment. He was unsure how long he’d been asleep for, he hadn’t got around to changing the batteries in the kitchen wall clock yet. Jenkins reached for the blue polka-dot mug. It was cold. Hmph.
“Jenny?” Nobody answered. Jenkins shouted louder, “Jenny... Jenny? Can you make us a cuppa, Jenny?” There was still no answer. “Jenny. Mine’s is cold Jenny. Jenny, have you moved my glasses?” He picked up the cup again with two hands and looked in. He recrossed his legs and circled his hands the best he could so the tea would swirl in the cup. He followed the motion and began to nod while he was doing it. He was careful not to let the tea spill over the sides. He hated mess. He took a small sip. It was as if he’d tasted soil. His eyes screwed tight, he wrinkled his nose and opened his mouth a little. The tea dribbled down over his chin, down his faded chestnut shirt and onto his lap. He let the cup fall out of his hands and smash onto the floor. The tea erupted from the cup and splashed about the kitchenette, leaving a large puddle in the centre. Fragments of fine-bone China glistened with drops of tea and glittered on the linoleum as their convex shape swayed in the light. The shells steadied and it was silent except for beige drips forming, swelling into a tear-drop before they couldn’t hold on any longer, falling into the puddles every thirty seconds or so. Jenkins eyes were still closed and he began nodding again to the tiny taps on the floor, his hands clasped together.
Jenkins looked at the clock, it read five to eight. His brow lowered and he started counting on his fingers. He was sure it was later than five to eight. He looked out the window to judge the sun, but there were too many clouds. “If the clock says five to eight, it’s five to eight”, he thought. He pushed his hands on his knees and rocked himself up and began to shuffle around his kitchenette again through the puddles and the shards of China. He paused to think for a moment, something wasn’t right. He looked at the ceiling in thought. He hadn’t got his glasses on. The letterbox at the front door snapped. Jenkins’ eyes lit up and mumbled, “The postman is early today.” He made his way through the kitchenette and hallway to his front door leaving a trail of footprints on the lino and damp patches on the thick, navy carpet near the door. Jenkins returned some minutes later with two letters. He picked his glasses up and stood near the window. “Let’s see what we have today, eh?” He tilted the envelopes close to his face and towards the light, looked through and over his glasses as he squinted to make out the names. “Mr....Mr Robert...Shears. Again?” He placed the first letter behind the next. “Robert Shears. No letters for me, ever. Ergh. And I fucking live here. Who is this Shears? I don’t want his flaming mail.” Jenkins frowned and held one letter in each hand over the puddles and let them go.
He sat back at the kitchenette table and pulled last month’s newspaper towards him. He smoothed out the creases with the palm, pressing hard so that the ink smudged onto his hand. His shirt and trousers were still damp from where he had spilled his drink and he held onto them with his free hand whilst the other thumbed the pages. Jenkins wore a vacant expression as he stared at the black and white print, the words and pictures merging into a grey haze. He went through the paper, slowly, page by page until he reached the end, folded it up again and re-creased the paper along the middle and left it on the table for tomorrow morning.
Jenkins flicked the switch on the plastic kettle. He looked in the sink at the dirty dishwater, the dirty plates and the leftover food that was floating. He plunged his hand in and grabbed a teaspoon. The steam rose into a cloud above the kettle. He looked down at his slippers; around him were the various bits and bobs from the drawers. Still engrossed in the tartan pattern on his old slippers, he reached through the cloud of boiling steam for another blue polka-dot cup. He jerked his burnt arm backwards, knocking the tins of teabags and sugar off the worktop and spilling onto the kitchen floor. “Arh. Jenny? Jenny, can you help? I’ve messed the... mess on the floor. Jenny?” The kettle started to shake and the little red light clicked off. He held his arm for some time. His feet were wet. He sighed.
The sky was darkening a little, the clouds were thickened and the branches gently blew in the autumn air. Jenkins stared outside, “I better take you on a walk, son. It looks like it’ll rain soon,” he said. He trudged through the mess, the crunch and scrapes of China beneath him. He put his hand into one of the already open drawers and felt around for the blue rope that he used to use for the dog’s lead. The dog treats were still in that drawer, so he stuffed a few in his pocket as well. The key was already in the back door; he turned it and left his little flat with the rope in hand, pulling it along the ground, alone.
Jenkins returned some hours later, without his rope. He stood outside his back door and felt around his trousers and pockets for his key, but all he pulled out were couple of crumbled dog treats. It started to rain. He patted down himself and noticed the stains on his shirt. Jenkins sucked his finger and tried to rub the stains out. He scratched a little at the fabric and soon gave up. He turned his head to the clouds to watch the rain for a while and then at the spots that were landing on the gravel. He was tired from his walk used the door to steady himself, he accidently held onto the handle. It gave way and the door opened. “Hello?” he called, “Is. Is anyone there?” Jenkins grew nervous. “Come out. I know you’re in there.” He edged himself closer to the door and grasped onto the doorframe as tightly as he could. Jenkins took a deep breath and swallowed hard. He tried to look through the crack in the door and then tried pressing his face onto the patterned window but he couldn’t make anything out, it wasn’t clear enough. He held his breath and staggered in, still holding the door, until he was inside his kitchenette. His face wore the same vacant expression as before. He looked over the kitchenette. The drawers had been rummaged through; his belongings thrown carelessly onto the floor. The crockery had been smashed. Something had been spilled. He stood at the back door. His eyes gradually moving over the ruin, tears were swelling up in his eyes. Before they couldn’t hold on any longer, they rolled down his cheeks. He looked at the clock, it was five to eight. He stepped over the devastation to the other side of the kitchenette to where the landline phone was kept. It hadn’t been plugged in for years and it had lost its brilliant white colour, instead it was covered in grey smudge. He lifted the receiver without dialling, “H-hello? Hello? I’d like to report, to report a break in...at my flat. Yes, everything’s been ruined. Can someone help me? Yes...Yes...Erm, yes. No. Okay. Thank you. Please hurry.” Jenkins gently placed the phone back on the holder and wiped his face with his sleeve. The key was still in the lock inside the back door. He shuffled back and locked himself in to keep safe. He returned to his plastic chair. Five to eight. Jenkins closed his eyes and nodded to his own, slow pulse pounding in his ears as he waited for someone to come.