Nina is sorting through laundry on the kitchen table. Streaks of rainwater darken the stiff fabric of the clothes and bedlinen and towels creased and peg-marked from hanging on the washing line. I take off my damp shoes and leave them on the mat.
Where is it? she says.
She rifles through the garments, pulling them to one side with baffled, curious movements.
Where is it?
The windows of the kitchen steam up ever so slightly. I take off my coat and hold it over one arm. Nina goes to the bottom of the stairs.
Ian?
Ian?
Ian? It’s happened again.
She goes back to the laundry and begins searching through the pile again. She has an anxious expression.
Where is it?
Ian appears in the doorway
What’s the matter? he says.
Another one’s gone, she says.
Another what?
Another pillowcase: it’s missing. That’s the third one this week.
She paws at the clothes, her hands moving in small lost circles. Ian puts his arms around her until her hands gradually stop moving and hang limply at her sides. I stand there for a moment letting the dampness of my coat seep through my shirtsleeve. I go upstairs.
Where is it? she says.
She rifles through the garments, pulling them to one side with baffled, curious movements.
Where is it?
The windows of the kitchen steam up ever so slightly. I take off my coat and hold it over one arm. Nina goes to the bottom of the stairs.
Ian?
Ian?
Ian? It’s happened again.
She goes back to the laundry and begins searching through the pile again. She has an anxious expression.
Where is it?
Ian appears in the doorway
What’s the matter? he says.
Another one’s gone, she says.
Another what?
Another pillowcase: it’s missing. That’s the third one this week.
She paws at the clothes, her hands moving in small lost circles. Ian puts his arms around her until her hands gradually stop moving and hang limply at her sides. I stand there for a moment letting the dampness of my coat seep through my shirtsleeve. I go upstairs.
Hello, my name is Jack Sparrow. I'm a 50 year old self-employed Pirate from the Caribbean.
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