In My Own Home

The young man looked worried, and he gave his father a frown. "Dad," he warned.

His father took another step toward me and pointed a gnarled finger at me. "You're a lucky one, punk."

I stood with wide eyes, trying not to gape. The old man had just called me a 'punk'! I wasn't offended. I was more surprised. The word 'punk' was not one you'd normally hear being called out across an old folk's home. And this man certainly belonged in one. And then, as the man took another step forward with his eyes quivering and his finger swagging up and down, a different sort of home popped into my head. One that would most certainly have a vocabulary that included 'punk'. An insane asylum.

I took a few steps back, and the man from the car sensed my concern. He hopped from the vehicle and guided his father around to the passanger's door.

The young man said nothing more after loading his father into the backseat, and he drove hurriedly away down the street. But as the vehicle swung wildly around the following corner, I swear I saw the old man's head through the window; he was still watching me with his finger raised.

I waited a full second after they'd left, and then let all my anxieties out in a single nervous laugh. Wow. What a weird encounter. I decided I'd had enough fun for a week in the world of random meetings with people of the third kind, so I headed home.

But, could you believe it? The fun was only getting started. Oh no. Meeting the man was reasonably normal compared to what happened next. Maybe because it happened in my own home--a place where I normally reign over everything--a place where I do not allow any unknown variables into my personal comfort bubble.

But when I walked into the kitchen only fifteen minutes after having met the man, I found a bag on my kitchen table.

My jaw must have been well-oiled because it fell swiftly open without a sound. That's right.

There was a bag of lemons and limes on my table.

The End

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