Swimming, sleeping, reading, reading, sleeping, swimming, not much else in the day for him now that he had an empty house filled with memories of when it was not empty, switches that turned on lights but left him in the dark. The only source of energy in the whole place was the letter she had left on the table, and he had promised himself that he would never read it, in fact that he would only let it sit on the table for another few days before throwing it away. So what did he do instead? He struck up conversations with cashiers in shops and hurtled forward through them with a loquacity that seemed to him a sign of good cheer but was to the cashiers an indisputable illustration of his inward distress. He talked too much on the phone, and too fast, no matter what the business was at hand. He inserted himself into conversations at parties simply so that he could, when the opportunity presented itself, make a riposte that he knew would be received as if he had said something witty, as if he was witty, though here he was the one who knew that it was empty, and the others, dull men with homes that were rich with satisfaction, believed that their own laughter was proof of not only his wit but their own.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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