I returned home with a pizza. I put it on the counter and turned on the TV. The phone rang. You haven’t even noticed I’ve left you, she said.
Tagged: Home (473)
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We were watching the cooking shows and she said, I’m hungry, so I went and poured two bowls of cereal and then we watched more cooking shows.
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And then the last of the guests left and I looked around the house and held my head in wonder, and I said, I hate people more than ever now.
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He opens his eyes. The morning light colors the room. It’s too early, he thinks. Then he says so. You’re supposed to like this, she mumbles.
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I got home cloaked in the day’s misery. I found my family, lost in the glow of the TV. I ate a bag of chips. I need validation, I told them.
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She sits beside me and we watch our kids. She smells like a bouquet of sunshine. I don’t believe in mutually assured destruction, she sighs.
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I came home and sat in my chair and asked my kid for a beer. One day we’re going to die, I sighed. He studied me. But not tomorrow, he said.
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And she starts to cry. Half the commercials on tv are meant to make you fat, I say. I squeeze her belly. Look, I say. She cries even harder.
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She said, Our house is so perfect, and he agreed because it was, and she said, It’s so perfect we can’t have sex in it, and he agreed, sadly.
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She points to the stains on the wall. I will never again clean this wall, she says. I stare at the wall. I don’t care for this wall, I say.
