The Object of the Matter.

Prudence Mercer was sitting in a warmly lit cafe on a damp afternoon. The sky was grey. A shade of grey that felt more like oppression personified than a color. The establishment’s walls were a cozy beige, trying -- and not quite succeeding -- to keep the sky at a distance.

Pru had just taken the first, delicious bite of her cheese and ham sandwich when the chair complained about her coat.

It’s wet.

“I got caught in the rain.”

Yes, your coat is wet.

“And I suppose that bothers you?”

You’ll get me wet.

She sighed.

It was fair, though. Prudence wouldn’t like being a chair either, so why not be nice?

“I’ll take it off, then.”

A sense of satisfaction washed through the chair, followed by a more definite:

Good.

There were brass coat hangers just behind her, and Pru used them to hang up her long brown coat.

She sat back down and, luckily, the chair made no further objections.

So, she relaxed and started devouring the sandwich again. She was making quite solid progress when a waitress approached Pru’s table. She must have been new because Pru didn’t recognize her at all.

“Hi, can I get you anything?” came the nervous voice of the waitress. A girl of perhaps 16, doe-eyed and curly-haired.

“Coffee, no sugar. Please.”

The waitress nodded, smiled, and scuttled away to make the order.

Prudence glanced at the clock in the corner. The face read 2:15.

It’s wrong.

Her pocket watch piped up helpfully. Mildly peeved, she pulled the watch out, double-checking.

“It’s only a minute off, less, actually.”

Precisely 43 seconds. Precision matters, Prudence.

Ignoring this, she returned the old, beaten-up pocket watch back to its home inside her pocket. It had been hers since she was perhaps four years old.

Before then, it had been her grandfather’s -- it still felt like his, even though he’d been gone 12 years now.

It had also been the first object she heard.

She had been five -- no, six years old.

She was brought back to her surroundings quite suddenly by a clatter.

The stern-looking man at the table beside her had dropped something.

A silver spoon.

Instinctively, Prudence reached out, briefly brushing the spoon with her consciousness.

Its thoughts, though horribly primitive, still left an imprint. The impression was one of exhausted surrender -- a certain listless acceptance of its lot in life.

If only I could accept my own life that easily, she thought wryly.

Finally, the waitress brought over the coffee.

"Here you go, just as ordered." The girl smiled, shy but pleased with herself.

"Brilliant. I was worried you might improvise."

The girl gave a small, uncertain laugh. "Yeah."

Prudence smiled back.

"Thank you."

Once the waitress had departed, Prudence picked up the cup, careful to close her mind to it. Thankfully, it was completely dead.

The first sip was startlingly hot, but the sensation helped ground Prudence. Bitter; her taste buds welcomed the familiar flavour.

The whole cafe was intimately familiar. The owner, a woman with greying hair, bustled about behind the counter.

The walls were filled with paintings of nature, little postcard scenes; they hadn’t changed in years.

Every little crack in the dark tile floors was a memory.

Just then, her watch, deeming these ruminations pointless, decided to chime in.

You’re late.

“How can I be late when I set my own hours?”

She took another languid sip of her coffee. Just to annoy the watch.

You’ve taken 7 minutes and 32 seconds longer for lunch than you did yesterday.

33 seconds.

“Okay, okay, please stop counting.” She interrupted quickly.

He did have a point, she conceded.

Pru had been getting too much dead-end work these past few months, and she still didn’t quite have this month’s rent together.

It wasn’t that she lacked for work; a Listener’s services -- Inanimate Object Liaison, going by the official title -- were always in high demand, but sadly, too much of that demand was for things that were unfixable, unethical, or simply the fault of the owner.

Most people assumed that she could just tell their recalcitrant oven to start working and it would do as she ordered.

But it was never that simple.

She gulped down the last mouthful of sandwich, and flushed it with hurriedly swallowed remnants of coffee.

She took her coat, waving to the owner in silent farewell, and left.

In the cold of outdoors she started walking, turning her collar up against the wind and keeping her hands tucked into the pockets.

The High Street of Caldwell was cramped, shabby and seriously lacking in upkeep.

The pavement stones were cracked beneath her feet. The old buildings, belying their modest size, still succeeded in looming above her like judgmental older siblings.

She passed the squat butcher’s shop, the large windows of the chemist and the peeling blue paint of the greengrocer’s door.

Prudence Mercer.

She paused to listen to the old door.

"Yes?"

The boy kicked me again.

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

I think his father kicks him too.

Prudence was quiet for a moment.

"I think so too."

She kept walking.

This time, as she stepped into West Street, she kept her mind resolutely shut.

There weren’t many people out and about; the grey kept everyone indoors. Prudence liked it that way.

Pru passed the streetlamp that had been flickering for the better part of a year. She had tried to ask it once what was wrong, but it had sullenly refused to speak to her.

Just beyond the streetlamp stood number 17, West Street.

Her Home, or as close to a home as it got.

A narrow three-storey building of red brick, covered in an obstinate infestation of ivy.

It was pressed so tightly between the surrounding buildings, that one would think the builders had first prised the others apart, then squeezed number 17 into the gap.

The door was a dark wood and had a woodpecker shaped knocker. Above this was a worn brass plaque reading:

17 West Street.

PRUDENCE MERCER

LICENSED INANIMATE OBJECT LIAISON

If it’s broken, call a repairman.

If it’s refusing, call me.

Below it stood another plaque, seemingly a newer addition.

WHAT I WON’T DO:

1. Tell you if your spouse is cheating.
2. Engage in sabotage of any sort.
3. Tamper with a third party’s property without their express agreement.
4. ...

The list went on, quite extensively.

Through the door, there was a narrow hallway with a few chairs --a makeshift waiting room -- and the office was opposite. At the end of the hallway were stairs. They led up to Pru’s flat, and above it, the landlady’s.

Inside, the office was quite ordinary. Cramped, impersonal, a little worn. Most of the room was taken up by a dark wood desk with a chair for Prudence, and another for clients. And a large filing cabinet took up whatever space remained.

Just as Prudence was hanging her coat, the phone started ringing.

Resigned, she put the coat back on and picked up the receiver

“Prudence Mercer speaking.”

“Good day, I was told you can fix cars?”

“You must have the wrong number; I’m a liaison, not a mechanic.”

“yes, I know. We can’t find anything wrong with the car, and it works perfectly when my wife drives.”

There was a pause.

“I think it hates me.”