Mara Blake in "Been A While"
Been A While
Mara Blake stood in the confines of her suddenly hostile kitchen, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple. The afternoon sun, a relentless ball of fire, blazed through the west-facing window, igniting the confined space into a furnace. It had been a sticky few months, the weather teetering on the precipice of summer, but today, the sun had declared war.
The culprit? The kitchen door. It had been playing a game of stubborn resistance for weeks, a slow and annoying creak as it protested being opened or closed. Mara, ever the optimist, had dismissed it as a passing fancy, a seasonal malfunction brought on by the dampness of spring. Today, however, under the unforgiving glare of the sun, the door had decided to become a prison guard, slamming shut with a resounding finality and refusing to budge.
Panic, a cold fist in her stomach, started to tighten its grip. She jiggled the handle and threw her weight against the unyielding oak, but the door remained resolutely shut. Trapped. The word echoed in her mind, amplifying the rising temperature and the suffocating silence of the isolated room.
A glance at the thermometer on the wall confirmed her worst fears. The cheerful blue numbers had morphed into a menacing shade of red, the temperature a staggering 88 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing. She was in a tank top and shorts, a concession to the already oppressive heat, but even that meager layer of clothing felt stifling.
Desperate for some relief, she scanned the room, her gaze darting across the countertop cluttered with half-empty cereal boxes and a forgotten coffee mug. Her eyes landed on a dish towel hanging limply on the oven rack. It wasn't much, but it was the only hope she had. With a sigh, she grabbed the flimsy fabric and marched to the window. It was a futile attempt; the dish towel, more suited to drying dishes than blocking sunlight, did little to impede the sun's relentless assault. The light streamed through, painting the kitchen floor in a harsh, unforgiving glow. The heat, already oppressive, intensified, turning the air thick and heavy. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickling down her cheeks, and her tank top, once a welcome reprieve from the heat, now clung uncomfortably to her skin. She needed a plan, and fast.
Defeated, Mara stripped down to her black lingerie and got down onto the cool linoleum floor, the sweat now clinging to her skin like a second layer. It was then she remembered. Nestled amongst the jumble of utensils in the drawer beside the stove lay a knight in shining - well, stainless steel - armor. Her trusty metal spatula.
Hope, a flickering flame, ignited in her chest. Scrambling to her feet, she yanked open the drawer and retrieved the unlikely weapon. This wasn't the hero she'd envisioned, but in the face of this domestic crisis, it would have to do.
Armed with her makeshift tool, Mara attacked the door with a newfound determination. Minutes blurred into what felt like hours as she pried, wedged, and chiseled at the stubborn frame. The heat intensified, blurring her vision at the edges. Each failed attempt sent a fresh wave of frustration crashing over her, but the thought of succumbing to the heat in her own kitchen was a far more terrifying prospect.
Finally, with a groan that seemed to echo her own exhaustion, the door yielded. It swung open a mere inch, but it was enough. Relief, sweet and invigorating, washed over her. She pushed the door open further, the cool hallway air greeting her like a long-lost friend.
The first order of business: a shower. Stepping under the cascading cool water, Mara let out a sigh that rivaled the summer wind. The icy tendrils washed away the grime, sweat, and remnants of her ordeal.
As she emerged, wrapped in a fluffy towel, a new wave of practicality washed over her. The door couldn't stay like this. Another episode like this could be disastrous. With a newfound resolve, she grabbed her phone and dialed the number of her neighbor, Paul.
Paul, a force of nature disguised in a kind smile and a permanent supply of hugs, readily agreed to take a look at the door. Within minutes, he was there, armed with a toolbox and a knowing glint in his eye.
Fifteen minutes and a few expertly wielded screwdrivers later, the door swung open and closed with the satisfying ease of a well-oiled machine. Paul, ever the pragmatist, explained that the culprit was a warped hinge, a victim of the summer heat and years of neglect.
Mara, still in her bath towel, thanked Paul profusely, a wave of embarrassment washed over her. Here she was, a grown woman, nearly imprisoned in her own kitchen by a door. But Paul simply chuckled, and gave her a hug that seemed to linger a little longer than it should.
Sitting at her kitchen table, the breeze from the open window cooled Mira skin. The ordeal had been frustrating, yes, but it had also reminded her of the simple pleasures in life - a cool shower, a helping hand from a neighbor, and the reward of overcoming a (somewhat embarrassing) challenge. It had been a while, she realized, since she'd truly appreciated the little things.
From then on, Mara treated her home with a newfound respect. The once-ignored creaks and groans of the floorboards became a reminder to address minor maintenance issues before they escalated. She even started a (somewhat neglected) notebook where she documented DIY projects, armed with the knowledge gleaned from Paul's toolbox intervention.
One particularly sweltering afternoon, weeks after the door incident, Mara heard a familiar thump from next door. A mischievous grin spread across her face. Grabbing her own toolbox, a recent birthday gift from Paul filled with the most basic tools, she marched over.
Through the slightly ajar door, she could see Paul wrestling with a wobbly cabinet door, his brow furrowed in concentration. Mara cleared her throat, the sound echoing through the quiet hallway.
Paul spun around. Then, seeing Mara's grin and the toolbox dangling in her hand, he burst out laughing.
"Looks like the tables have turned, young lady," Paul chuckled, with a glint in his eye. "Come on in, I could use a second pair of hands, and perhaps some moral support."
Mara stepped inside, the familiar scent of his cologne wafting from the hallway. Taking a deep breath, she felt a warmth spread through her, not just from the heat of the day, but from the comfort of knowing that even the most mundane tasks were easier tackled with a friend by your side.
As they worked together, laughter filling the air, Mara realized that the "Been A While" story wasn't just about a malfunctioning door. It was about the unexpected connections forged in the face of minor inconveniences, the silent language of shared experiences, and the simple joy of helping a neighbor, even if it meant wielding a slightly rusty screwdriver. It was a reminder that sometimes, the greatest stories bloomed in the most ordinary of places.
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A Haiku: "Been A While"
Hot kitchen, trapped tight.
Metal tool fights wooden foe.
Freedom, cool relief.
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