Meeting

Housework, chores, whatever you name it, it has the same effect on the person that is doing it. After a while of running around the house that I had once loved, I had a wave of emotions flow over me and I had to sit down. 
What was funny about the wall that was behind me, was that it seemed to be talking, like there were a number of voices just speaking out of it. Quite obviously there was a door somewhere, but the door that had once been there was sealed away. The frame was filled with the sticky white stuff that sometimes goes between the wall and the stuffy stuff to keep in the heat. Its sticky, smelly and apparantly kills, quickly, so its best to keep it away from your lungs. 
As I was sitting I realized that the voices were not coming from behind the door, they were coming from within the door.  The further scared me, I scooted as far as I could away from the door without reaching the landing and realized that I wasn't leaning against the first door, I was leaning against the wall between the two bedrooms.  As I looked at the wall, it began to pulse, as if it was made of cloth and not sheetrock and cement.  Becoming dizzy I closed my eyes and hung my head between my legs. 
I had the sudden urge to look up and when I did had the strengh I swung my head upward and tried to focus on the polished brown shoes in front of me. As I stared, the right one began tapping impationatly. 
I believed that I was dehydrated, because I asked the shoe, of all things, if I could have a drink of water for my splitting headache.  The shoe, or so I thought, answered, "Get downstairs."
I refocoused and slowly looked up from the base, first the polished shoes, then the perfectly ironed brown pants, then a trimmed cumbersome, followed by a white buttondown covering a sunken chest then finally a small neck burrowed into a high coller.  The neck was connected to a fairly small head, and the face that was this person looked very familiar. He had a small tight mouth, high arching eyebrows and thinning hair.  He peered down at me from his specticles, the right eye's top frame was held together with thin strips of duct tape. Again I heard the tapping foot.
Frustrated the little man yanked me off of the balcony and propped me against the fabricated wall and began dusting me off while the whole time muttering about cold food. "Cold food," I said, "What does that have to do with anything?"
He gave my side one last frustrated brush and stood up to his full height, almost 5'4". Almost motherly he shooed me down the stairs with no direction, just the faint mumerings of 'cold food!'