It is impossible seriously to believe that a the passage of a hundred years or two hundred years will be different from the passage of twenty. He (the man I will not name, so as not to give him the satisfaction) will still stand up from the table and declare his hate for the food. She (the woman I will not name, so as not to give her the burden) will still remind him that he cooked it, that he bought the ingredients, that he insisted on the menu, so that any dissatisfaction must be borne by him and by him alone. She’s eating an apple she bought on the way home. He will yell about how it is too early to eat lunch at any rate. “The sun has just come up,” he will say. She will laugh. “That’s the moon,” she will say. “You are a fool, or at the very least perplexed by time.” The bones of the house creak. Vultures circle. If the table does not crumble into dust, it is a simple matter of luck.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
No comments:
Post a Comment