Futile Gesture

I find myself in a responsible position within a reputable institution, and my evening arrival at home is welcomed by my beautiful wife. We share many interests, and spend pleasantly frequent hours discussing cultural matters. Our house is more than adequate for our needs, although we both ruefully agree that if we were ever to have children a relocation would be in order. But in the meantime we enjoy our life together. One evening I am suddenly conscicus of a noise from the kitchen. I ask my wife to pause the video, and pace uneasily towards the door that leads to it. I walk softly in my stockinged feet towards the door. I pick up an empty wine bottle and slowly turn the handle. I feel more animal than human more ready to deal with, an intruder than I ever have before. I burst open the door, the neck of my wine bottle in my clenched fist. There is nobody in the kitchen. I give the back yard a cursory check, but the flat feeling I have tells me that nothing will be there. Determined to make something of my foolishness, I pointlessly grate some edam cheese. I almost continue the grating until my fingers are bleeding, but I decide that it would be a futile gesture. I return to the living room for the rest of the video, leaving the edam to curl and atrophy in the kitchen.