| Sodderman's Burden |
| By John R |
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Sodderman took solace in the mundane. Completing chores around his little country place cleared his mind of the distractions of the day. Distractions like that bitch, Clara, his bridge troll of a wife. |
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She took exception to everything he did. 'Wipe your shoes on the mat, Sodd, not on my carpet!' 'Pick up your own damned dishes, dammit, Sodd!' 'It hurts when you touch me like that! Can't you take your damned watch off?' |
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His chores were his freedom, his vacation from his own life. He'd created discreet sections, mental compartments to divide up his day. His mind had become a maze of concentric chambers, each separate from the rest, cut off by impartial divisions. Sodderman's sanity depended upon it. |
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'Sodd, would it kill you to run the vacuum around the rug after you stacked up that damned wood by the hearth?' |
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