A Little Less Gravity

At eleven on Saturday, all the teaspoons in June’s kitchen rose six inches above the table.

She looked through the open doorway at her brother.

“What,” she asked, “have you brought in my house?”

“A suitcase.”

June waited.

“An experimental suitcase.”

Felix had designed a device that reduced the weight of luggage. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to put a boundary around the effect. The suitcase floated beside the fridge. So did the fridge magnets. June’s cat, Clement, watched his water bowl with deep professional suspicion.

“Switch it off.”

“The switch is underneath.”

The suitcase turned lazily, revealing its underside against the ceiling.

June climbed onto a chair. The chair immediately began to rise.

“Interesting,” Felix said.

“If you say that again, you’re sleeping outside.”

He grabbed the chair’s legs. Now they were both floating. Clement launched himself from the windowsill, caught the curtain, and expressed an opinion that needed no translation.

Below them, June’s birthday cake left its plate.

She had spent three hours icing it.

“Felix. Save the cake.”

He pushed against the ceiling, sailed past the cake, and caught the lampshade instead. June hooked one ankle around the curtain pole. With her free foot, she nudged the suitcase until its little red switch faced her.

“Everything will fall,” Felix warned.

June surveyed the suspended furniture, her brother, and the slowly rotating cake.

“Then turn it down first.”

“It’s a switch.”

“Make it a dial.”

For once, Felix didn’t argue. Holding a screwdriver between his teeth, he worked while June kept the suitcase steady with her foot.

They landed gently at twelve seventeen.

The cake arrived upside down.

At the party, June served it in bowls with custard.

Felix offered to explain the invention.

“Later,” she said, handing him a washing-up sponge. “I’ve found something else that needs to weigh less.”

She pointed to the work remaining in her sink.