7. Welcome Back, View
By Gordy Fluffer — Because the good towel still isn’t dry.
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Rafael didn’t knock.
He never knocked anymore.
He just arrived.
The door opened at 1:59 p.m., and there he was: holding a small, flat package tucked under one arm, wearing the shortest shorts yet, and a loose cotton tee that was one errant breeze away from retirement.
Glenn inhaled audibly. Harold dropped the coaster he definitely wasn’t gripping nervously.
Rafael (calmly):
“Hello again.”
That was it.
Like he hadn’t been gone.
Like Marina hadn’t turned their home into a sterile nightmare of emotional coldness and bleach.
Like they hadn’t spent two full days reminiscing over coriander and recliner arms.
---
He moved inside like he’d never left—boots soft on tile, bag swinging gently at his hip.
The flat package was placed on the kitchen island like a sacred offering.
Harold:
“You look... refreshed.”
Rafael:
“Thank you. I had a light week.”
Glenn (horrified):
“You didn’t clean?”
Rafael:
“I prepared.”
---
He began in the usual way—straightening pillows, checking corners.
But it was different this time.
There was a new rhythm to his movements.
A slight... extra.
When he reached for the lamp behind the couch, the shirt lifted.
Just enough. Not an accident. Not quite intentional.
When he bent to retrieve a rogue slipper, his shorts reminded the room of thighs they’d sorely missed.
Harold (whispering):
“Is it just me or did those shorts get shorter?”
Glenn (fanning with the remote):
“Those aren’t shorts. That’s an innuendo with a drawstring.”
---
After the initial tidy, Rafael returned to the package on the counter.
He opened it carefully—slow, neat, deliberate.
Inside was a small, black frame.
He held it up.
Turned it around.
And hung it—just above the recliners. Perfectly centered above the window.
Inside, a simple label. Clean Helvetica.
“The View.”
He stepped back, tilted his head, and smiled.
Not at the frame.
At them.
Rafael:
“I thought it deserved some recognition.”
Glenn made a wheezing sound. Harold’s hand was frozen mid-sip.
Glenn:
“You... you made us a label?”
Rafael:
“I document what matters.”
---
And then—just like that—he got back to work.
Wiping. Fluffing. Realigning the tea tray so the emotional resonance flowed clockwise.
But the frame stayed.
And Harold and Glenn?
They sat in perfect silence beneath it.
Both staring.
Not at the room.
At The View.
---
End.