Peanut Butter

He licked the peanut butter off his hands. Some red caught his eye. Was that blood? He looked down at his hands. Nothing. He flipped them over and surveyed again. Nothing.

The two halves of bread came together easily and perfectly lined up. He slowly picked up the knife, and – wait, was that blood again? He put the knife down and rubbed at his thumb. No, not blood. He picked the knife up again, and started cutting the sandwich into triangles, like his mother used to.

He went to grab a plate. Surely, that was blood. There, on his pinky. He sucked at it. No, nothing. Not even the flavor of jelly. What? Weird. He pulled the plate off the shelf. Blood on his hand, he saw it this time. He was sure.

He put the plate down and went to the sink. The water ran hot, but he stuck his hands in anyway. He looked up, out the window with the red polka dotted curtains he remembered from his childhood. He could almost hear her voice, “Remember, Jimmy, scrub nice and good now. You want to get everything off.”

He shut off the water and turned from the sink. Back to his sandwich. He picked it up and went into the living room. The room hadn’t changed at all. The plastic covered furniture was still there, and the worn shag rug underneath his feet still smelled of the cleaner he’d used earlier.

He sighed, and sank into the couch. His hand lifted up the sandwich, but he ignored the color of it, instead watching the fuzz across the screen of the old TV.

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