Mr. Bricolage is making pancakes. His ladle has a leak. The thick paste drips over Bricolage's kitchen tiles, which alternate blue and white and now buttermilk too. Bricolage's spillings will make him late for work. Bricolage's mess will knock him to the ground. Bricolage's head will throb from the knot that is formed when he loses his footing. He will brush off the affair with a smile, thinking, you clumsy Mister, you old pair of double lefts.
Mr. Bricolage's phone is unresponsive to his touch. He's missing minutes of a conference he's meant to be on. Bricolage spills soda on his keyboard whilst reaching for a twizzle stick. His computer ceases to work. Mr. Bricolage excuses himself for the rest of the day. He stands right up, walks right out. He smiles to himself thinking, quite a doozy today, Bric, quite a show of hands.
Mr. Bricolage is turning the television on with one of many remote controls. He switches the channels to the proper configuration for his nightly game shows. There is no sound. He switches devices, he presses his thumb over buttons, he tries for an hour, his TV and his speakers never sync. "You devils," he whispers to his collection of remotes. "You little naughties."
He looks at the clock. He thinks about dessert. He rubs his burnt tongue over the back of his teeth, against the roof of his mouth. He decides that ice cream will not be on the menu tonight. He realizes he is quite tired. He knows tomorrow will be different. Mr. Bricolage looks around his apartment, turns off the light above the stove in his kitchen and says aloud to his plants, "tomorrow will be a better time to start today, my lovelies." He slides his palm against the wall as he traces so many nights' paths up the dark stairwell to the safe embrace of his thoroughly padded bedroom.