Crimes in the Kitchen; An Interrogation

“Nikki this is the police, Come out of your apartment NOW.”

A bright light flooded my bedroom window.

“Oh no,” I jumped up from my seat and ran into the kitchen, immediately picking up the sponge. I loaded it with soap and feverishly began washing the dishes, pretending as though nothing was going on.

The voice spoke again, “Nikki, we know you’re in there. This is your final warning, come out now and no one gets hurt.”

My shoulders sunk to the floor. I had to give in; there was no way around it.  I dropped the pot I was scrubbing and went to the apartment door. I opened it slowly letting just my soapy hand and right shoulder slide through. The spotlight pointed at me was blinding. I let the rest of my body out.  Water dripped to the concrete sidewalk.  It was time to surrender.

I was loaded into a police car and driven to the local station. After being escorted down the hall I was shown into a small dark room with only a small table and three chairs. A single fluorescent fixture flickered over the table.

“Have a seat. I hope you understand why we brought you in tonight?” The officer exclaimed as he walked into the room. I sat, as told, and replied;

“Actually no, I don’t ever remember committing a crime…Unless you count that one time in college….” I stammered, quickly stopping myself. 

“I need to ask you a few questions. Where were you on the afternoon of November 19, 2011?”

I chuckled….”That’s easy; I was at home, cleaning my apartment.” An obvious lie. I cleared my throat.

“Nikki…..Let’s be honest with each other here.” He leaned into me. I sunk down into my chair, noticing at the same time that the chair was Thonet.

"Hey these cops have some good taste." I pictured what my cell might one day look like....

Decorated Jail Cell and Kitchen Silhouettess: pr0digie's flickr stream

“We've had 24 hour surveillance on you for the past week. We know that you haven’t been cleaning or blogging. So what’s the deal?”

“Wait, what?”

I couldn’t wrap my head around his question. Why exactly did he bring me here? Was it because I was the suspect in an investigation….Or because I haven’t washed my dishes in a week?   And why was he making me feel so defensive about dishes?

“What kind of questioning is this?” I asked. I was starting to get angry. “And how is it any of your business whether or not my apartment is clean or my blog is being tended to? I’ll have you know that I have been working my tail off…And I’m tired. Who are you anyway?”

I noticed the paint on the wall. It was a chalky grey.

 “That color would be perfect in my apartment.” I replied, trying to change the subject.

“Benjamin Moore, Boothbay Gray,“ he responded. “But Nikki, that’s not why we’re here. I brought you here because you’re falling off track. You’re putting off doing the things that make you truly happy and successful; you’re not allowing yourself to grow. I know it’s hard, and it’s scary, but you are on a mission and you can’t let anything get in your way.”

I could feel the anger dissipate into regret. He was right. I was looking for recognition in all the wrong places. In the process I lost the only recognition I ever really need, the kind that comes from myself.

I needed to find my way back, starting with the kitchen.

Interrogation Lamp: DWR, Thonet Side Chair: , Ladies in Waiting Plates, Tea Cup Hook, Staub la Cocotte Mini, Blades of France Knife Set, Burnt Horn Knob, and Fine Dining Placemat Set: Anthropologie,  Hand Mold: Fishes Eddies, Tripod Dining Table, Squirrel Nut Cracker, Olive Wood Paddle Board: West Elm, Letterpress 2012 Calendar: Bold and Noble, Benjamin Moore "Ben" Paint (Boothbay Gray, Simply White, Scoot): West Elm,

 My eyes opened. The morning sunlight flooded my window. I smiled to myself, got up and headed toward the kitchen sink.