“So I was at the bank…”
His voice shifted into character.
We were all a part of the act now.
A captive audience.
This, our nightly ritual.
Scenario
Punchline
Expectant face.
Customary smirks, a stage laugh.
exchanged looks with the dog. Our eyes roll in unison.
To think back on what I thought would be a golden future.
Me, in white, standing next to him in his wrinkled grey suit, smiling with all teeth, one lip covering his uneven canine on the upper left.
This was once hope.
Now I am just rearranging the canned vegetables on my plate, wishing for a quick death. I am just a bit player in his script. Here because the two drink minimum has a good special.
“That’s a bad transaction!”
His eyes looking at me. Even the dog has found refuge elsewhere. They always keep one hostage.
“Did you hear me?”
“Honey?”
“Honey?”
And I say nothing. I just sit, face locked in the scowl of generational disappointment. And he closes his once-expectant mouth, looks down at his plate. He has finally seen himself in his true form, in a reflection next to the overcooked chicken breast. As we all see him. His eyes begin to water. His head lowers and he begins to whimper. A sad, battery-starved stuffed animal’s distorted gasp. His tears soak the dried meat as his body begins to quake.
And then, finally, I start to laugh.
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