Fuck.
***
In my loungeroom, there is a hanging, looped cord attached to vertical blinds.
I'm in a rental, so I can't just cut the loop the way I normally would, snipping in half the latent danger that lies in things like that for small children. So, I wrap the cord around the curtain rod, to keep it up and out of harms way.
Yesterday, I didn't warp it tight enough. Obviously, because it slipped down and dangled, resting just an inch or so off the lounge.
I had a friend at my house, and he walked into the loungeroom first....
Don't panic. There was no danger, not immediate, not with the next two seconds.
But the visual gutted me.
My friend ran to the Chop, removed the cord, admonishing him to never do that, never touch that cord, rewrapping it where it is safe.
All while I stand, frozen.
I'm not even sure what I'm thinking. Nothing. Nothing logical. A primal voice in my head is screaming "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!", and I might faint.
I don't. I'm OK. Chop's OK.
It's OK.
It's OK.
***
The new trampoline we bought, it had to be tied down. The wind down here is strong, and would easily pick it up and flip it all over the yard.
"Lori? Do you have any rope?"
It's a logical question, but I can't answer, I can't even see. Rope, rope, rope, shades of orange. My mind is full of coils of orange rope, that's all there is, and where it is, in the garage, in the dark, coiled and sinister and watching us for months.
Rope.
Orange rope.
I shudder, shake the thought from my head.
No, I answer, I don't. I don't keep rope in my house.