George and the Peppers

“At least the whole house didn’t burn down! Goodness me,” exclaimed Sylvia, exasperated. George was in his front room when I opened the door to his apartment; he was puttering around, blatantly unaware that his daughter, Sylvia, had left the oven on, dinner inside, hours previously. Collette, the dog whom he insists on calling Kitty, was running all over the place, bouncing off the bench and darting underneath the round oak table, on which the tea and cakes are spread for the Sunday afternoon tea parties. That night, however, there was just one empty plate, apparently clean, or clean at least compared to the decadent squalor of the rest of the place: a sticky sheen coated the peeling wallpaper, an indelible crust covered the red tiled floor, faded green velvet pillows smattered across the mishmash of chairs, signed photographs curled coyly from the walls, nearly-empty pots of cold soup and egg-shells teetered dangerously, Monday night’s dinner of roast beef and potatoes sat in a bowl on the stove, cockroaches crawled down the open kitchen cabinets that housed loose-leaf tea and batteries and tulip bulbs, not to mention the stacks, piles, and stashes of books, books, books, everywhere. None of this was new, though, and I hardly paid attention to the place that night, really. George was looking at me – he looked both happy and surprised to see me – and he was blissfully oblivious to the string of clear mucus hanging straight down from the tip of his parrot-nose, defying gravity. He was wearing a green silk shirt and his hair was freshly rumpled.
“George, you look nice. Did you get a haircut?” I said slightly tentatively, aware that he often resents the fact that he cannot remember who I am, yet feels like he should.
“No I did not, I never get a haircut, I don’t cut my hair, I just light a candle to it and then put it out. That’s how I do it,” he replied.
“Oh, well, either way, it looks nice; you did a good job. I just came up to turn off the oven – did you eat yet? –Sylvia said she forgot to turn it off, and your peppers are inside.”
“Kitty, kitty! Come here, kitty,” George pulled the dog close, struck by an urge to stroke her, and continued: “yes, I already had my dinner, I don’t want those. You should just keep them in the oven, I think that’s a fine place to keep them. But you know, tomorrow you really should get some more meat,” he said, sticking his fingers into the stuffed red peppers, only slightly charred, “because there isn’t enough meat in these – just look. There’s less than one quarter the amount of meat that there should be, I’d say, and you should also get some onions, and fry them up really nice, and put them in the peppers too, and some spices. Then you should bake it all together again.” The string of snot dangling from his nose swayed as he emphatically gestured, showing the way that I should fry up the onions. “You should come back tomorrow, okay?” And then he left, returning to his bedroom, and I left, going back down to the shop; I closed the door on the barking dog and the crumbling room.