Shel walked in the door and hung his coat on the second hook from the end. He sat down on the bench, bent at the waist and untied his right shoe, then his left. He sat back up, slipped off the right shoe, then the left, and bent again to pick them up from the floor before tucking them into the third cubbyhole from the bottom.
He stood, and then walked into the kitchen. Randall couldn’t see him anymore, but he knew what Shel would be doing, because he’d seen it every day for the past two weeks.
First Shel would open the cupboard, then he would take out the tall blue glass (that was made from a very fine faux-plas). He would fill it with water until the level was an inch from the top, and then he would drink it all without stopping. After the glass was empty, he would wash it and put it back in place in the cupboard. There was even a precise little circle on the shelf that marked its location. Randall had looked.
One of these days, he was going to hide the glass. That, or break it, depending on the mood he as in. It wasn’t really a fair thought — he’d known what he was getting in to, after all — but he couldn’t really help it. This was Shel’s place, which meant Shel’s rules and patterns were worked into everything, as permanent as the ring on the shelf.
Fuck. If is was going to work, they would have to move. That conversation was going to be fun. Actually, it might just be the one to end with the broken glass.