Every single time he lost his keys, he cursed himself for being so fucking clumsy. Feeling a red mist of self loathing and dire frustration descend, he patted each pocket, checked each table top, walked up and down the stairs, and to the car and back. He looked in coats, bags, shoes, plant pots and decorative bowls filled with miscellaneous items. He checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom, and the basement. Sitting, bereft of any new thought as to where the keys might be, he held his head in his hands and said: Why does this always happen to me? and if anyone else would have been there with him, they might have said: It doesn't. Since living here Peire has used his keys 1,475 times, and in that entire amount of usage, only once has he struggled this hard to find them. It seems it's the natural condition of our brains to focus in on each and every time something doesn't run smoothly, pushing out the memory of each time something does. Ins
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