One day, several weeks ago, Sonja asked me, "You seen the scissors?"
I had not.
Sonja reached for a knife to cut what she needed cut and said, "They must be around here some fucking place."
Couple days after that I asked Sonja, "Where's the fucking scissors?"
"I can't find them anywhere," Sonja told me. "They're probably in your office underneath your crap."
No fucking scissors. There's some in our first aid kits but I like to leave all the gear in those bags. I too reached for a knife. I had already searched my office up and down.
This went on for a while. We were in denial. Our scissors were fucking gone. After a couple months I told Sonja, "We have to go scissor shopping. We'll get a good pair - not made in motherfucking China. Maybe some European ones."
Sonja ignored me. I have as much input into what gets purchased for our house as Charles Fucking Manson.
Couple days after that I was drinking coffee at the kitchen table. A voice on the radio told me a man had crashed his car and killed himself. Speed may have been involved. I was thinking about speed when I noticed something black poking ever so slightly from beneath a tabletop wine holder on a shelf across from me. There were still two half empty bottles of sherry and port in the holder, untouched since Christmas. Beneath the two bottles was, of course, the scissors.
I had missed them. I placed my fingers expertly in the handles and pretended to cut like a barber. Snip-snip-snip. It felt good. I wondered if that is what a barber feels like, powerful really.
One of my Christmas guests had probably hid the scissors under the fortified wine. Knew Sonja and I do not often touch that shit. Drinking quite a lot makes people do shit like that. Ha-ha. They won't find them here for months.