The God glove

Reluctant. That was just how the rain looked as it fell, almost in clumps. A dull blanket of grey clouds formed a backdrop for wheeling seagulls who at any moment would turn and spear downwards through the wet air. Jeff was alone. Again. He trod the streets, shops now closed, apprehensive of the early dark evening fast approaching. His flat – tucked above what passed for a fish and chip shop in the high season – offered no refuge from the gloom.

First, Jeff thought, the cold air would now seep under the door, too short for the frame and the landlord wouldn’t fix it.

Second, the boards had gaps large enough to poke a finger down and all sorts of bugs poke their heads up.

Third, the bulbs. The bloody bulbs. Flickering, yellow, getting dimmer and dimmer before finally giving up every few minutes. What a depressing atmosphere.

Fourth, the fridge stank, the oven never got hot enough to cook anything beyond a jacket, and the tap dripped when it wasn’t spluttering.

Fifth…stop. Enough, he thought. I know. Nothing changes. I don’t change.

He climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last until finally, almost out of breath, he reached the top and turned to his left. Putting down the plastic bag – milk (one day left), bread (same), chicken breast (pale, plump, definitely not organic), roast tomato sauce (enough for two, maybe three servings) and tea bags (faithful friends) – he reached into his coat pocket for his keys.

Bollox.

Where were they? He hadn’t heard them fall out, but then who ever does?

He checked the plastic bag. Of course, he’d dropped them in while searching for his wallet in the corner shop. Panic over, and a voice inside whispered, be not afraid. He hooked them out with his forefinger, turned the lock and shuffled past the threshold nudging the cheap MDF door shut with his boot.

He pushed the plastic switch on his left. Let there be light, he thought. Some flickering and then, begrudgingly, on. This was home. His home. But he felt as if he wanted to be anywhere else but here. It just reminded him. Of her. She wasn’t here. Nothing of hers was. In fact, nothing of hers ever had been nor ever would be. It was her absence that made her so present here. Everywhere he looked – the galley kitchen with its single bowl in the sink, the bathroom with its single towel hanging over the shower door, the bedroom with its single bed – reminded him that he was on his own now. That new start he thought he’d make here was a distant hope.

And then he saw it.

Lying in the middle of the floor of the dimly illuminated living room, was a glove. Unmistakeably, a glove. Its middle finger was even propped up on either side, as if directed at him. Mocking him.

But he didn’t own any gloves. This wasn’t his.

The window above the radiator was open. On the outside ledge sat what looked like a dove who flew away, beating its wings gently as it drifted off into the darkening town. A single white feather lay on the back of the sofa.

Could somebody have thrown it in? The gap was probably large enough. Some group of youths maybe with nothing better to do? It seemed unlikely that the bird had brought it in and then waited for his arrival. He rushed to shut out the chill air.

Jeff walked over to the glove. Inspected it carefully. Its black leather looked worn and soft but it was otherwise unremarkable. No gunk. Seemingly dry. Probably his size actually. Which is what made him decide at that moment to put it on. A stranger’s glove, found in his dank flat. Knowing not whence it came.

A flash. The room began to spin.

The universe toppled sideways and shook before settling on his outstretched palm. All that ever had been, that is, and that will be pulsed through his fingers like electricity. The muscles in his arms twitched. He sensed everything. Everywhere. He felt the emotions of billions of people coursing through him, feeding him ever greater amounts of energy as an expansion of unlimited consciousness filled his being. He knew he could do anything. Be anywhere. Create anything. There was a sense of stillness amid the change. For what felt like an eternity, his whole being filled with hope.

Jeff knew he had become God!

Such peace. Such love. Such joy. Such…responsibility. It was too much.

He ripped the glove off and it fell onto the carpet with a dull thud. Disoriented, he stumbled forwards before reaching out for a chair in front of him. After a few moments, he regained his bounded awareness and felt like himself again. Small. Insignificant. Disconnected. Just a man.

He picked the glove up, opened the window, and tossed it out onto the damp street below, carelessly illuminated by the orange glow of the lamps. It settled on top of a cigarette butt.

Who wants to be God, he thought. It won’t help.

But it was just like she’d said. He threw everything good away. He couldn’t be a father.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a final glimpse of the bird falling out of the sky, hitting the roof top of the building opposite. A single white feather floated atop the rain in the gutter before being washed down the storm drain.

The lights in Jeff’s living room shivered and went out.