What with all the Confusion Between Art & Life, and I have become both my semi-evil narrator and her poor husband, I went to get some French vanilla ice-cream with subtitles, and suddenly, I saw myself in the refrigerator with at least 730 of the purloined socks. Quick! Close the refrigerator door!

            When I peeked in the refrigerator again, all six kittens were in there, tumbling around with me and the socks. The mother cat said to me, "What? There are 730 socks in here, and not one single matching pair?"

            My cat, Little Wing, walked by just then and said, "That hardly seems possible; have you even checked the Existence and Uniqueness Theorem? Sheeesh!" Quick! Close the refrigerator door!

I went to hide out with the disturbing flora & fauna populating the underside of the late bed when suddenly I heard a drip, drip, drip—somewhere—drip, drip, drip. I crept into the kitchen because it seemed to be coming from the refrigerator. So I opened the door, expecting to see a bottle of ketchup, six kittens, a shredded but be-jeweled ball gown from Nowhere in Particular, together with the 730 socks, but instead, I saw John Belushi working on that thing—drip, drip, drip—in the back of the fridge where the defroster defrosts. He was trying to see the little thing, so he could fix it with that teeny tiny crescent wrench of his, leaning over, complete with the Plumber's Butt.

            He turned off the light, right quick, and you know, I can understand why. But when he said, "Listen lady, if you would just buy the damn suction cup to go with the plunger stick, we could all put on a pair of these socks and head on out the home route," I almost forgot about trying to figure out about the light, or the drip, drip, drip, or the kittens, or how that little red ball got stuck in the end of John Belushi’s crescent wrench in the first place. Quick! Close the refrigerator door!

            Still, it was no use. Every time I closed the fridge and opened it again, either my husband or my wife, who can tell, was still in there, turning the damn light on and off, on and off, on and off, in a beat syncopated to match the drip, drip, drip. Finally, to solve the problem of Who Is Who Exists Where, I got right on in there too, and closed the door behind me.

            That's how we all ended up in the fridge. This isn't one of those safety models, either, so we can't even get out to get to the vanilla ice cream, which I love, or the strawberry ice cream, which I either love or hate, but eat in either case, so I don't think anyone's going to go crazy tonight after all.

Jennifer Woodworth studied creative writing at Old Dominion University.  She is the author of the chapbook, How I Kiss Her Turning Head, published by Monkey Puzzle Press. Her stories and poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from Gone Lawn, The Citron Review, Bending Genres Journal, The Eastern Iowa Review, *82 Review, and The Inflectionist Review, among others. She's also a nominee for a 2020 Micro Fiction. She knows how lucky she is anytime she gets to write.