Michael slid the dresser drawer into its slot though the stubborn wood complained. He looked a last time into the mirror atop, near the cologne, after-shave and deodorant. Everything was in place; he had consumed a full hour combing his hair alone. He opened the door to the hallway and felt the soft bristles of carpet beneath his feet. He liked that sensation, and he heard the murmur of some few voices around the corner down the carpet-covered stairs into the kitchen and out beyond the deck. Some vociferous sounds even out onto the lawn he sensed.
“What are they doing on the lawn this early,” he asked himself as he glanced at his watch. “I need to say something about that.”
No-one had disturbed him as he prepared himself; they never did. No-one inquired after his bad moods, or put difficult questions to him. No-one made any suggestions to him about anything. As he walked into the living room near the kitchen beside the window leading out onto the back porch, and beyond came the lawn, a kind of silence followed his steps. They remained a few moments and split into groups, scattering onto the lawn or up the bristle-carpeted stairs, but slowly, and with soft deliberate motions.
“Why do they do that?”