A Sending of Bricks
by
Bobby Derie
That there are powers beyond my senses and conception, I take for granted. Only a fool would argue against gravity or electricity, for though we cannot see these things they affect us every day, and I acknowledge those adepts who are initiated into their secrets. So too, I must now admit to a belief in stranger forces, which obey lesser-known laws, that some few who are knowledgeable of may manipulate to their own ends.
Once, I was more skeptical. The steel-eyed woman looked at me curiously as she held her cat - she was one of those bird-boned folks, dressed all in shades of grey, and sometimes it seemed to me that it was the cat that was holding her, rather than the other way around - and she did not care for my skepticism. I asked for proof, as any good science-minded fool would, and she promised to give it in the days to come.
We finished our tea, and I left.
At home, I had just taken off my shoes when a sharp pain stabbed me in the foot. Examining my sole, I found a lego brick, bright and gray, had been left in the carpet. I need not say that I owned no legos at the time, and had not since I was a child...but I picked up the offending brick, and placed it on the counter.
Later, as I lay down to sleep, I felt another stab - and peeling back the covers, found another plastic brick hiding in my sheets. There was no question of having misplaced the first brick; that had been a 6 x 2, this was a 4 x 4. Taking up the offending building block I placed it beside its mate on the counter.
The next morning there was a brick in my shoe. I nearly chipped a tooth on the plastic board hidden inside my breakfast burrito. They were never so frequent as to occasion immediate alarm; always they seemed to poise hidden in ambush for the moment when my guard was down. Too, they did no serious harm, although the imprint of the sharp corners and little divots was marked in many places on my flesh. It became a necessity to check the toilet seat before sitting down, and to shake out shoes before putting them on, but I considered the whole thing little more than a joke for some days.
On my counter, the pile had grown unmanageable. I spent a pleasant hour building it into a little gray house, along the same floorplan as my own. It was almost disconcerting how accurate it was - I, who had not snapped lego-to-lego in a decade, found my hands moving with great surety as the pieces snapped together. When I was finished, the plan was almost perfect - down to individual bits of furniture. Only one thing was missing.
That night, my fiance came over. She admired the house, and pish-poshed my sending of bricks. Her skepticism and practicality are part of the reason I love her. In due time, we enjoined to the couch for our scheduled appointment with the streaming television service and a bottle of wine. Hands slipped beneath shirts. Clothes came off. In the fullness of the evening, she was riding on top, screaming at the screen that Cersei was a bitch and she hoped the mad queen would die...and then a sharp pain halted the proceedings.
She clambered off, and we observed the ruin of the condom. It had burst around the sharp edges of a grey lego-man's foot, and the broken latex oozed gently against my thigh.
"You," my fiance said with great deliberation. "Need to go talk to her and tell you that you are sorry."
Of course, I agreed.
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