Dislocated by Max Andrew Dubinsky

on the stove, hairdryers, and talk show television hosts.
    I grip the shotgun like you would a pole if you happened to be a firefighter, and bring the butt of the gun down upon the doorknob in one swift stabbing motion. The knob falls off, clattering to the floor. I push the door open with the barrel of the gun, my finger wrapped around the trigger.
     
    The place is empty just as all the others. Leslie’s life remains, but she does not.
    Floral pattern couches and throw pillows. Picture frames clutter every corner of every surface. Dried up red roses dead in a vase of brown water. A television my grandmother probably owned sits in the corner, complete with bunny ear antennas. It smells overwhelmingly delicious in here, like flour and sugar and frosting. It’s a welcome reprieve to the odor now roaming the halls outside. If this is what led to Hansel and Gretel’s demise, I don’t blame them.
    A pizza box, the contents half-eaten, sits on what looks like a coffee table made from tree stumps and glass. I’m sure someone, somewhere, once considered it art.
    The faucet leaks, protesting dirty dishes and a cluttered counter.
    I say hello.
    “Leslie?” Pause. “It’s your neighbor.” Pause . 
    I step into the kitchen, sugar crystals crunch and roll beneath my feet. I twist the cold and hot water knobs as far to the right as I can manage. Dried cake batter and stale chocolate crusted along the edge of the counters, Leslie seems to take her work home with her.
    The faucet drip remains despite my best efforts.
    I find mixing bowls covered in cellophane in the fridge. A case of soda. A door dressed in condiments.
    I click on the air conditioning, telling myself that Leslie would hate to come home to an apartment this hot.
    The bedroom door is closed, and even though I know she isn’t here, I knock anyway.
    Receiving no response, I crack the door.
    The bed is unmade, the curtains drawn. A small sliver of light shoves its way through, making its best attempt to illuminate this tomb, this place once full of life and now suffering from abandonment. A box of empty tissues and its contents, used, lay scattered about the perimeter of the bed as if to keep out ghosts and bad luck. Every other framed photograph is turned down. I approach the nightstand, picking up one of the overturned photos resting between a bottle of lotion and an alarm clock. I handle it with my thumb and index finger as though it were a snake I found in the garden.
    It’s of Leslie and a man I do not recognize. He is strikingly handsome, his arm around her.
    I return the frame the way it was discovered.
    I open her dresser drawers, telling myself there might be a clue to today’s disasters, but I’m really just looking to see if her underwear is as sexy as I imagined it to be. I go for the top drawer first. It’s all mismatched socks and panties—none of the black lace and pink bows I’ve been fantasizing about.
    I’m overcome with a tingling sensation in the back of my head, a roller coaster drop in my stomach— like I’m being watched. The place is empty, but I’m not alone. I quietly close the drawer, stepping back from it as though I’ve discovered a hidden camera in there. I leave the bedroom exactly how I found it—sickly dark and sad—and return to the living room.
    I head for the door, opting not to look for any more clues regarding Leslie’s potential disappearance. She could have left this morning, never made it home last night, or is still at the bakery. Only time will tell.
    I’d have made for one shit detective, that’s for sure.
    Sorry, Leslie.
    I contemplate the roses—their last days—then leave.
     
    I instinctively reach in my pocket for my keys, and realize I never took them with me. My door is unlocked. I enter with confidence the way a man should be able to enter his own home, a place of refuge and familiarity. A place of safety where no foes or disasters await him. I set the shotgun on the counter and close the door. When