The Mystery
Of The Missing Letter

"There's a letter missing." John was bent over the mail rack when I walked in, late from work.

"Oh."

"No, not oh," came his enigmatic reply. Not everything John says makes sense to me. I think it comes from him being a writer, permanently distracted by his inner world.

He redirected his attention to the top of the fridge, and began scrabbling amongst the odds and ends which, being five foot tall, I only ever saw with the help of a stool. At least if he was looking there, he wasn't holding me responsible for what was lost.

I sat on the kitchen stool, and sighed at the bare table and cold stove.

"No tea?" I asked.

"No - not tea," he said shortly, and moved his efforts to the pile of papers on his desk.

It was part of the agreement when he threw in his job to concentrate on writing that he'd handle the domestic work while I paid the mortgage with my nine to five job. Cooking was his responsibility, yet it was after six, and my stomach was empty.

"Well, can I help?"

He groaned as if my offer annoyed him. "No, I won't help."

I stood and began clattering pots and pans in annoyance. Why did I ever find his incomprehensible personality attractive?

"I'll make fish and some vegies then. Want peas?"

He glared at me. "No. Not peas."

"Why?"

"Nope. Not why. Crikey, where is this letter?"

"What is it, anyway? Is it from the ex?"

"Definitely not the ex."

I was relieved. His first wife left him years back for someone who didn't spend his life tapping at the keyboard, yet it hadn't stopped her making demands on him.

"Jay, then?" His older brother was the other person who never failed to get John into a stew.

"Nope, not Jay."

His voice wasn't clear now as he lay on the floor and poked beneath the fridge with a wooden spoon.

My annoyance with him was growing, yet if I helped him find whatever letter he was looking for it might end this strange mood.

"Can I see?" I grabbed a few crackers from the tin and kneeled beside him as I ate them.

"See?" He snorted as if my idea was inane. "Nope, isn't see."

"Okay then!" I straightened and knocked my head on the microwave trolley. "'Ell!" I swore, splattering cracker bits everywhere.

"Come on! It's not o - kay," he spat the syllables separately, “and I don't want to hear 'ell again!"

I kicked his backside and went back to my pots. He was the one driving me mad - how dare he complain if I swore?

John relocated his search to the gap between the stove and the dishwasher. Feeling like knocking him on the head with my biggest pot, I stood back impatiently.

"How long is this going to be?"

"Not be!" He banged his hand on the lino for emphasis. "Not be, be, be!"

"Gee!" I stamped my foot in retaliation.

"Gee?" At this he sat back and glared at me. "My own wife - and no help to me at all!"

That was it. My patience was finished.

"What is going on, John?" I demanded, hands on hips. "Is this to do with me?"

"Yes! Yes it is!" His eyes lit with strange fire and he leapt to his feet and wrapped me in a rib-cracking embrace. "It is YOU!"