Waiting - Flash Fiction

picture by Enrique Meseguer

Waiting

By Emmett Hall

Susan stood in the middle of the kitchen after putting the Bundt cake in the lower half of the oven.  “Oven set the temperature to 350 for 50 minutes.” 

“Would that be upper oven or lower oven?”

“Lower.”

“Lower oven set for 350 degrees for 50 minutes.”

She turned her wrist over, and the watch was blank. “Dang, I forgot to set it on the charger,” She told herself as she unstrapped it. She slid a bowl of oranges over to unveil a round charging disk.  Susan dropped the watch on it and the edger of the disk began to pulsate in a pale blue glow.

“Samsung, what time is it?”  Four pleasant voices, one man and three women answered almost in unity.  “Ththe timtimtime isisisis 222424245 ppmpm.”

Rolling her eyes, she almost understood what they had said.  It going to take a little time getting used to the kitchen remodel.  It was still undecided which appliance she should address.  If she asked the brand, she got, what she just got.  She had to condition herself to talk to just one for general queries.  The refrigerator seemed the likely bet.  After all, it would stream music and playbooks, compile shopping lists and give news with video.  The dishwasher was too much of a mouthful to ask anything of all the time, and besides, once she set the myriad of controls on it, she never had to change it. 

The oven was a short sweet call.  Not without its problems though.  She asked it the temperature outside after it was installed a few weeks ago. “The temperature is 375 for 45 minutes,” the oven responded. 

It must have missed the word outside.  “No, Oven I want the temperature outside right now.” 

“Right now, in New Haven is 62 degrees.”  The oven said.

As she had rounded the corner to the rec room, she heard the oven say something else.  By the time she returned it was done talking.  She went on her way.  Forty-five minutes later, a pleasing bonging began.  Susan put her book down and went into the kitchen and opened the oven door and looked at the baked zucchini.  It looked just like it had when she put it in there. What the heck?  On inspection, she found the oven had reset the cooking temperature to 62 degrees.  The provolone cheese hadn’t even melted in the lest. Lesson learned, don’t query the oven for temperatures not related to cooking.

It’s down to the microwave, the toaster or the refrigerator.  The microwave was too many syllables.  The kids keep moving the toaster around knocking out the time making it unreliable.  Back to the refrigerator.  After looking in the manual and punching in codes and a bit of trial and error, Susan finally got it renamed to Fridge.  All she has to do is remember it.

“Fridge.  What time is it?”

“The time right now is 2:55 pm.” 

Susan rinsed and stuffed her cake making utensils into the dishwasher.  The microwave announced.  “Time to go pick up the children in fifteen minutes.”  “Time to go pick…”

“All right, stop.”

“up the children in fifteen minutes.  Time to…

“Microwave, I said stop.”

Bong

Slamming the dishwasher door shut, dishes rattled, Susan paused and took a deep breath.  “Sorry, dishwasher.  It’s not your fault I’m cranky with the microwave.”

The dishwasher was mute.  Maybe she wasn’t forgiven.  She dried her hands on a steel gray dish towel matching the appliances and hung it back on the oven door handle.

“Fridge what is the temperature outside right now, this minute?”

“The temperature in New Haven is a balmy 72 degrees.”

Balmy?  Isn’t that a bit subjective for a refrigerator?  How does the fridge know it’s balmy from my balmy?  She remembered an explanation in the manual.  Something to do with some mathematical formulas, an algorithm having to do with humidity, temperature, wind speed, and dew point to give a declaration of air condition.  Dew point?  What the hell does that have to do with anything?  

“I’ll just grab a shawl and go now,” Susan said to the fridge, as though it was listening.  Actually, it was listening she realized, but not queued to respond without being woke up. 

She chuckled at the thought, if only Henry, her husband, could be programmed that way.  Henry already was to a degree.  He even admitted it.  Early in their marriage, she had been talking to him and asked him a question and got no response.

“Henry!  You listening to me?”

“Oh, sorry, dear.  I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

“What.  No one else is here.”

“I didn’t realize that.  Just say my name and that will get my attention.”

How little did she know she’d have a whole collection of Henrys built into her kitchen years later.

Wrapping the light tan shawl over her shoulders, she followed the short path down to the rocky shoreline.  Sitting on a jutting outcrop of stone, Susan relaxed waiting for the school saucer to drop the kids off.

Maybe she can get Sammy or Tiffany to fine tune the kitchen for her after they get their homework done.  Otherwise, she may have to explain to Henry how the dents got in the appliances and how the dents matched the ones on his head for buying all that stuff.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.  The school saucer settled on his spindly legs.