I get out a glass and set it on the far side of the countertop as close as I can to the next room, and then walk into the dining room towards the light switch and reach for the door. At the last moment, I freeze and blink. The door is gone.
I roll my eyes at myself, turn around, grab my glass and head in the opposite direction to the depth of the kitchen where I find the fridge and the door I was trying to open. I pull out the milk, close the door, pour myself a glass of milk, get a plate of cookies, grab the milk bottle and head back out to the dining room to put the milk away. Once again, freeze, laugh, sigh, turn around, go back into the kitchen, and put the milk in the fridge.
You see, for two months, the fridge was in the dining room while we worked on the new floor and new countertops. But fate intervened and so we didn’t get the grout lines done yet. Out of desperation to have a somewhat normal looking house again, we put the fridge back Saturday. But the damage to our brains is done. The unusual pattern of going into the dining room has been made a habit, and we both catch ourselves several times a day trying to use the invisible fridge.