Mistake

Simon’s coffee splashed onto the ground. He watched in horror as the dark brown liquid crept through the light grey carpet, tarnishing it forever with his split-second mistake. A single twitch and the carpet he’d spent weeks saving up for was ruined. Simon’s stomach dropped as fast as the coffee had. He felt a great, creeping wave of dread and disappointment filling his body. Helplessly, he kneeled down and surveyed the damage. He wondered whether a damp cloth would save it. The reason the kitchen was carpeted was to save costs. The kitchen was the smallest room in the house; Simon had made the decision accordingly. The carpet was his pride and joy. It was something he had worked for and bought, something that he had wanted. He raised himself up to his feet, grabbing onto the kitchen counter to steady himself.  He felt like crying.

“Dad. DAD!”
Simon looked up from his shame with a start. He looked over at the time. He’d been lamenting his loss for several minutes straight. His daughter was waiting.
When he got into the car, he felt a sharp kick to the back of his seat. “Dad! Hurry up! I’m LATE! What were you even doing in there, anyway? Doesn’t take THAT long to drink coffee! Hurry! HURRY!”
Simon started his car. It spluttered and coughed, wheezing and groaning like it was deathly ill. He grimaced. When he had the time, he would have to get that looked at. 

Driving down the road, he noticed the sun visor’s mirror was flipped open. He closed it quickly. He didn’t want to see the dark circles under his eyes, nor his yellowing teeth or flecks of untrained stubble. Simon wasn’t an unattractive man by any stretch of the imagination, however, since the loss of his son and birth of his daughter he had let himself go. Or, perhaps, the better phrase would be that he locked himself in. 

They came across a red light. His daughter cursed and wailed at the unforeseen inconvenience. Simon felt another kick to his chair. This wasn’t the first time he’d been the target of misdirected anger from his daughter. A tiny, exasperated smile played across Simon’s lips. “We’re almost there, I promise,” he assured. “Just hold on a bit longer, Scraps. Did you remember to pack everything? Lunch, books… all that?”

“Uh. Yeah. I did,” she mumbled, much more subdued than her usual roar. Simon heard rustling from the backseat that suggested she was double-checking her own claim. He chuckled, pulling up by the school. The car gave a strangled gurgle of effort as Scraps dashed out of the car without a goodbye. Simon gave the steering wheel a pitying pat. A broken and unreliable machine, far past its prime.

Once he parked the unfortunate hunk of metal back outside of the house, he rewarded himself with breakfast. On the menu today was a flavourless bowl of beige cereal. It had a nice enough texture that Simon enjoyed it regardless. Well, at least the milk was refreshing. As he spooned it down, he read through his schedule for the day on his laptop. He had a lot of commission work to get done. Logos mainly, but someone had even asked him to design a birthday card! He smiled. Finally, something new.

After he’d scooped the remnants of his meal into the bin, he sat down at his computer. It booted up with a loud whirr. He frowned. It was louder than it had been yesterday. He plugged his drawing tablet into it, a work expense that had been paid for out of someone else’s wallet. Though, there were conditions. If any part of the tablet broke, he would have to pay for the damages himself. He reviewed the logo instructions he’d been sent from the requester paying the most. He always felt dirty prioritising the highest payer, but he had bills. A lot of bills. The email held a simple request. Design a colourful logo incorporating a smiley face and a crown. Easy. He’d exchanged a few back-and-forths with the commissioner the previous day. She was friendly and gave him permission to use all of his creative freedom. 

If I were a creative person, I wouldn’t be doing this job, he thought to himself as he opened his art program. I can just make shapes look good. I’m not an artist. He bit his lip. His friends, the ones he had before he’d become so withdrawn, would have chastised him for that one. Of course he was an artist! This was considered an art job. And design is art, right? Lots of things were art. Everyone was technically an artist.
That made Simon feel a little worse.

Simon sighed, drawing a circle. The basis of any good design. He tapped his pen against the desk carelessly. “Yep,” he said to himself. “Art.”

He looked at the email for the sixth time. As he was looking, he noticed something. The email address of the person who commissioned him. Right under her name. The address was [email protected]. 

The live taping of the old Smile Factory was the show they’d gone to see when his son disappeared. Before it had its reboot.  

Simon dropped his pen. It bounced onto the floor. The hundred dollar tablet pen shattered over the concrete floor of his office. 

A single twitch.

A single mistake.