Happy Birthday

I hear talking as I walk through the back door into the laundry area. I stand quietly, nobody heard me, so I listen - it is the normal chatter about old times. There is lots of laughing, but is it really funny? I look down as I close the door close, the door is hitting the jam - I push the door towards the hinges and it easily shuts. I make a mental note to fix it later.

“Hey, he finally made it!” Mom smiles from her recliner. The queen receiving visitors and gifts. 

“Like I would miss your birthday!?” I walk across the living room, lean down give her a kiss on the cheek while dropping a card in her lap. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to give me anything.” This is a complete lie as we all know she keeps a mental inventory or checklist of gifts and visits - don’t dare miss one. She plays the game, acting surprised to receive a card.

“Well then, I’ll just take it back.” It is an old game as I act like I will retrieve the card and everybody has a good laugh - they all know.

“We didn’t think you were coming?” Melissa motions towards me from the dining room table where she is gathered with our cousins from mom’s sister. 

“Nah, it all worked out and here I am.” I find a chair next to her, the only sibling I truly love. My sister, my protect, my proxy mom growing up - the only person in the family that I have ever asked for advice or told the truth.

“So, did you meet the new grandson?” Mom dollars from her seat behind us, it seems Becky told her the reason for my being tardy.

“Yeah, we finally met him.” I glare at Melissa and quickly soften realizing I never told her it was a secret.

“Oh, what is his name?” Aunt Jean seems to scream from the couch.

“They named him, well I guess the momma named him, Jackson.” I smile, remembering the little bundle I had in my arms less than an hour ago. He was now 3 months old, but we had just met him due to ongoing dispute between my son and the baby momma. Yes, not a traditional approach to having a child, or maybe it is now, as mother and father are not together and apparently do not even get along.

“Ah, that seems to be a popular name these days.” My sister addresses the table, mentioning her husband’s nephew naming his son the same and then a coworker with a son named Jackson as well.

“Show us the little fella, I’m sure you have plenty of pictures.” My cousin Laura calls for me to produce my phone and share pictures of the little guy.

Instinctively, my hand moves towards the phone in my pocket, but then I stop it. I look around the room, remembering the things said about my first grandson, my son and my wife over the years. I see cousin Jackie whose son professed it was against nature to mix races and there is uncle Bobby who loved to drop the N word and told me they are inferior.

The room spins, I stand up and walk to the kitchen and grab a glass and fill with water. I see Aunt Jolene across the room through the glass as I drink. She had expressed her dismay with having “coloreds” in her family, ending with “can you imagine?” She had vowed to disown her daughter when the daughter tried to date a black man. It was great when the daughter adopted a girl from Africa many years later.

And there is Jean next to Jolene, who professed that black people stink so many years ago in her very own home. It was her sumJean after riding the city bus one day. I lower the glass and set it in the sink, spotting my brother Jeff on the couch. 

He always wears a hat and today it is a glowing red with MAGA across it. He once told me racism doesn’t exist because he has never seen it followed by a long critique of black athletes acting uppity when speaking about about police brutality. My own story of scary situation with local police and my son does not sway his opinion.

Finally, there is mom who told me to find somebody of my own race so many years ago when I first met my wife. More than once, she told me to find a good white girl and quit messing with “those people.” She likes to call my wife “classy” and “well spoken” - this from a woman who did not finish the 10th grade. 

I turn and lean back against the counter and in fact do pull out my phone, checking for messages before returning to my pocket.

“Wait, you forgot to show us the pictures!” My cousin Dee yells from the dining room. I can see her through the opening in front of the sink in the short wall separating kitchen and dining room.

“Nah, sorry, I don’t have any, they are all on grandma’s phone.” I shrug and make a face that I think shows my forgetfulness even though I now there are plenty of new pictures of the little one on my phone plus nobody even asks about the other grandson - his shadow every weekend, his number one priority these days.

“Geez, really? What kind of grandparent doesn’t have pictures?!” Aunt Jean is beside herself and she turns and continues whatever conversation she was having

Everyone returns to their talking as I stand in the kitchen. I watch the faces contort and laugh and share old stories, but I realize I do not belong there - I never have and I should not have shown up. I had the excuse, I had a way out with the time with the new baby, but I made it all worked and ultimately showed up. 

It may be harsh - these people may be my family, but they know nothing about me and they are not people I would ever hang around. I think of the many gatherings at my house where none of them showed except for mom. I then go back two years, I feel the anger rise, and I am standing at dad’s funeral where only my siblings had shown. I pull the phone from my pocket again and feign reading an important message. I drop it back in my pocket and walk back to mom’s throne.

“Hey, sorry, but I have to go, her car stopped again so I need to go get her and get it going again.” I raise my hands to express my disappointment and convey there is nothing I can do.

“Oh no, well I understand. I appreciate you coming.” She leans forward and I plant another kiss. 

I back away slowly and exchange pleasantries with the rest and give Melissa a genuine hug as he whispers for me to be good. I want to tightly wrap my arms around her and not let go, I want her to protect me like she did when I was little. I want her to go with me, but I know this is where she belongs and it is I who does not belong.

I return to the backdoor to leave, push it back and pull it open as I now know it’s problem - I stare at the hinge again, searching my car in my mind for a screwdriver that could be used to fix it, but I know the car has nothing. Unlike my father, I never carry tools with me - something I always regret. I stand between the door and the storm door to depart when I hear it.

“You know she probably just texted him because she doesn’t want him here. She has his claws in him and keeps him from me. I just don’t know what he sees in her, well her kind, they are just different.” Mom announces to the room and there is no disagreement.

The anger subsides and I am now embarrassed, feel like a fool for ever showing up. I gently close the door, hoping nobody hears and jog to my car down the street. I sit with the a/c blowing, thinking I will cry but there is nothing, there is nothing left here for me.

Expectations

I sit at my desk and lean back in the Ikea chair - a good purchase and has not fallen apart like I predicted. I replay a voicemail from a cousin informing me of mom's birthday party this weekend. To my right I see the birthday card that I keep forgetting to send. I pick it up, rereading, nice message but not sure I believe it. Does that really matter? Drop the card, give a gift and check it off the list. A family joke is mom keeps a scorecard - a checklist of who does what for her. There is a picture of dad holding me on a nearby shelf. Regardless of the stories about dad, I miss him. It was a covid funeral, so abrupt, sterile and restrained. I feel the anger stir within me, most of those invited to the upcoming birthday party never reached out offering any type of condolence - no card, no call, no text, no Facebook message, no appearance at the funeral home, nothing. Has it ever been easier to send a message with so many options? It bothered me then and it bothers me now, a slight I cannot shake. Sure, he was not the best person, but they did not know him or even seen the man in probably 30 years. Am I a good person? Are they? The anger continues to rise and in one swipe, a stack of books flies across the room, hitting the door.

"Everything okay down there?" My wife yells from upstairs.

"Yep!"

I sigh, stand up and collect the books, returning them to the desk. My aunt died recently, and I was there offering sympathy and assistance. Did I want to? Did it matter? I prepare the birthday card and walk to the mailbox, flip the flag up, deciding I will not attend the party. I will spend a different day with mom.

Transport

My first reaction when listening to jazz is the musicians are amazing. I am always amazed at the way music transports me to another time and place, a memory - some good, some bad. A few years ago, I worked on a project that required me to be in Minneapolis every other week. While there, I would listen to this local jazz station in the car and whenever the opportunity came up which was often since I was usually alone. It introduced me to a lot of artists that were never on my radar. One cold, wintry morning (minus 7 F) as I drove my rental car to the office, the jazz filled in the interior of the car as I followed the curvy road leading to the interstate just as I hit a patch of ice - the car spun for what seemed like ten minutes but in reality only a few seconds, it spun twice before catching dry pavement and I was miraculously facing the right direction and no traffic to be seen. I continued on my way as the jazz played, never missed a beat with work. Also, the music makes me think of The Talented Mister Ripley movie where Jude Law's character loves and plays jazz while Ripley fakes it - one of my favorite books and movies. Finally, the music returns me to my early twenties with a self-professed jazz aficionado for a coworker. He was a complete snob on the subject. I could never determine if he actually knew his stuff or was just a blowhard as I did not really care of have the time to pretend I did, but such snobs can ruin anything - do you have to express your love of jazz to enjoy this performance? Be a professional writer to enjoy a book? There are so many good things in the world, just sit back and enjoy.

Promises

 I climbed the stairs following the receptionist's directions, going to my left at the top and straight down the hallway. The knot in my stomach was familiar, I was always nervous on the first day of an assignment. A guy named Joe, the lead, was going to be with me in the meeting. I stood in the doorway - a cold, white, sterile room with space age inspired furniture, the norm for all new offices.

"Are you Tony?" A tall balding guy with black rectangle glasses and gray suit greeted me.

" Joe?" I shook the outstretched hand.

"Bingo, take a seat. They are on their way, this is a straightforward project so should be a quick discussion." His gaze returned to his laptop.

The room quickly filled and small talk about weekends commenced - I always hated these discussions, like I really cared about their personal lives? There were introductions followed by Joe diving into the details and making glorious promises on my capabilities. I interrupted at one point and questioned his assertions on could be done - he gave me a side eyed glare and never stopped talking. The meeting ended, the clients scattered and again it was the two of us.

"Don't ever question me in front of a client again." Joe gently shut the door and turned towards me.

"Well, don't make glorious promises that I, not you, have to fulfill."

"Do you think this is easy?"

"Telling the truth?"

"I thought you knew what you were doing?" He plopped in his seat and spun back to me.

"I do, but apparently you do not." Yes, I was this arrogant in my youth.

"Do you really think they'll remember everything I promised? I was just closing the deal." He removed his glasses and wiped his face.

The conversation escalated to a shouting match eventually interrupted by the receptionist. We went our separate ways and ultimately the client was happy with everything. We worked together a lot over the next few years and we are friends to this day. It is funny to think we became friends after that initial encounter. It was if we felt each other out that day.

Rock

 I pulled down the attic opening, unfolding the creaky, old stairs before ascending into the darkness. I stood on the top step in complete darkness, feeling the space around me for the light cord - why didn't I bring a flashlight? The dark space illuminates as I pull the cord. Remnants of a life lived cover the attic space - Christmas trees, Halloween decorations, old shelving, vacuum cleaner, suitcases and one particular case that house old memories. With mom gone to the nursing home, everything needed to be cleared out. I grabbed the familiar blue old sewing box by it's clear handle and dropped it through the opening to the hallway floor below, gently descending the stairs.

I lean against the wall and flip the latch, revealing stacks of papers and other keepsakes. I leaf through the papers, creations from my school days - there is the writing exercises from third grade, wow my handwriting was legible back then. There is a stack of mother's day and other holiday cards which I always signed with my full name - weird. I shuffle through the old report cards and progress reports - always A's with the teachers saying I am a quiet student who is a blessing to have in class. Why didn't anybody realize a kid should not be that good? I shudder remembering how mom always patted me on the head, calling me an old soul and her rock. The grades plummet here and there in eleventh grade, ah yes I remember vividly realizing or thinking I could do anything I wanted, when really I just wanted the attention yet nobody ever noticed. My heart rate increases as the waves of panic wash over me. I want to run, but there is so much work to do and I can't let her down.

What do you see?

“Brother, brother! Help me, brother!” I lean over, positioned at the bottom of the stairs, on my knees and reach to the top step, begging my grandson’s assistance as we play out the famous scene from The Lion King. 

He pushes my reaching hands back and I over-dramatically fall back onto the ground - end of the scene. He rushes down the stairs laughing, jumps on me and I give him a big hug. I lean back against the mammoth coffee table - it is indestructible, weighs a ton and often serves as a stage for my little guy. He sits in my lap, sipping his juice while Lion King plays on the tv - his eyes flutter, sleep not far away.

“Hey guys.” My stepson, the the little one’s father, enters through the side door without making a sound. 

“Hey, how was your night?” I look his way, expecting a response.

“Yeah, it was okay.” He stands staring at us before cautiously stepping forward, arms outstretched, telling his son to come to him. He does not budge, so he warily leans forward, pulling the boy from my lap. They disappear upstairs as I stand, stretch and drain a bottle of water.

I hear footsteps above me, a door shuts and then quiet. I glance at the clock, much later than expected. I munch on pretzels as they sleep, contemplating bed myself. The wife arrives a few minutes later as she had given mom a ride home from work. Small talk follows and then bed - the house silent.

A few nights later, it was the two of us again with everybody occupied. The little one loved his bath time - there was a pile of toys and various scenarios to play out. He was busy, in his own world, as I sat next to the bathtub, one arm in the water and the other scrolling my phone. I hear the downstairs door open and slam following the familiar rumble of the stepson’s new Charger in the driveway. Next, footsteps climb the stairs, approaching the bathroom door.

“What is going on?” He swings the door open and stares down at me, a wild look in his eyes.

“Oh, you know, it is the bath hour. How was work?” I smile, it had been a great evening of playing, the little one filled me with joy.

“Yeah, fine, whatever, he needs to get out now.” He motions to the tub as the little boy is oblivious to everything but the green frog in his hands.

“What is going on? You’ve been acting weird the past few days.” I pull my hand from the tub and push my body upright. I stand facing the young adult. There was obviously something on his mind, I could always read his moods.

“You know what is going on.” His eyes tighten their focus on me.

“What are you talking about?” 

“C’mon, you know, I saw what you did.” He points at the little one while keeping his gaze on me.

“I have no idea what you saw, so tell me what is on your mind. C’mon, let’s have it.” I was both dumbfounded and uneasy, he had always been temperamental and many hours of anger management had been useless.

“The other night when I came in, he was in your lap.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“You were rubbing against him, I saw you.” He rests his hands on his hips as the the accusation fills the small bathroom. He looks like his mother as she often takes that stance.

“What?” My body goes numb, I feel a tremor in my arm, I have no clue what he is saying. The air has been sucked from the room.

“Don’t try to deny it, I SAW YOU!” His voice raises while stepping to the tub, positioning himself between me and child.

I feel a jolt, like I am holding a live wire or have been punched. I feel sick – beads of sweat cover my head, a knot consumes my stomach.

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but you are out of your mind. I would never, I mean I would never, you know I would never. You have lost it.” I have no clue what to say, there is a dagger in my stomach that cannot be removed. Was this really happening? I look down at the little smiling face that is now frowning, sensing the trouble.

“I know what I saw.” He reaches down, pulling son from the water who reaches for me “Pop Pop!?” wanting a rescue. I turn and retreat from the tiny, steamy bathroom, shutting the door, I hear a cry as he continues to call for me.

I make my way out of the room, over the old blue carpet that should have been replaced years ago, down the steps into the kitchen. The faux wood flooring had held up well. I stop in the dining room, lean forward on a chair. My heart racing, this seem like a nightmare, a bad joke, but it is all too real. My grip tightens on the chair before shoving it, the table slides against the wall as the rest of the chairs scatter.

“Really?!” I yell at the ceiling. I hear quick footsteps across the carpet and into his room, muffled crying can be heard. I feel like crying, but the anger and hurt overpower me. I am in shock and have no clue what to do. 

My first thought is I want the boy gone from my house. It is a betrayal of epic proportions, but I cannot kick out the child as well, right? I descend to the lower level and sit in front of the TV as an old episode of Seinfeld plays, my mind drifts back 25 years.

The smiling little two year old barged into my apartment with his mother in tow - I was finally meeting her son after eight months of dating, I was over-heels in love with her. I pick him up and hold him, there is an instant bond. I become his protector and pseudo father as a family forms. I looked at the pictures on the mantle. It was amazing how much the grandson looked like him.  

The trance is broken when she walks into the room, staring at me on the couch, after a late night with her sister at the casino.

“From the sound of it, everybody is asleep, which is where you should be since you know your little shadow will wake up bright and early.” She falls into a chair, removes the pumps while rubbing her feet.

“That isn’t going to be a problem.”

“Oh? Something go wrong? Did he take him back to momma?” She glances towards the stairs while unfastening ear rings and placing them on the end table. She leans back, sighs, awaiting an answer.

“No, they are upstairs. You might say something went wrong as your son called me a pedophile.” My heart races, a cold sweat covers me, I hate reliving it. It frightens me to hear it out loud.

“What?” She is understandably confused, leaning forward with hands on knees.

“You heard me. He said he saw me rubbing my dick on the little one, the other night when he came in from the movies.” I motion to the floor in front of the TV, where I had sat with the little boy, after we had played - fun that would never happen again.

“He would not do that. He knows how much you care for him.”

“He would and did. You think I am making this up?”

“What were you doing that night?”

“Seriously? Are you seriously asking me if I was rubbing my dick on a child? After everything you know?” I feel the punches keep coming and I see, or think i do, something in her eyes, albeit briefly, but it was there, like she was processing and thinking what if.” I lower my head in defeat, my world obliterated, the proverbial rug pulled from under me.

“No, I am not saying that, just wondering what he saw or thinks he saw.”

“I was sitting right there, it was after we acted out Lion King scenes on the couch and then the stairs, he was drinking his juice and sitting, well resting, in my lap. I was watching the news when he came and stood in front of us.”

“Well, I just can’t believe he would say that to you. Maybe you misunderstood.”

“Jesus fucking christ, are you serious? He told me he saw what I did and then took the child away, hurried to his room and locked the door.” I could not believe I had to defend myself to her, I feel betrayed and want to scream.

“I know, I am just trying to figure out what happened. It’ll probably be fine tomorrow, you know how he overreacts on everything and if he is fighting with baby momma again then he always acts stupid and lashes out.” 

“It won’t be fine tomorrow, it’ll never be fine again.”

“Don’t say that.”

“He has no clue what he said, he has no idea about the truth and when shit gets real, and you know what I mean.” 

“Well, we’ll see. Anyway, I did not win anything at the casino.” She rubs her eyes, grabs the shoes and heads upstairs.

I lean forward, head in hands, head throbbing. Everything playing on a loop in my mind and then I take it further thinking about telling others, but is that even possible?

This is a scarlet letter – a stigma for the accused whether true or false, and it will last forever. People remember the cover story not the retraction on page 10 (for those that remember newspapers). A conversation at work, any conversation, will be awkward.

“How was your weekend?”

“It started good but ended badly in an argument with my son, eh, I mean my stepson.”

“That sucks, what’s going on?”

“Oh, he said he saw me sexually abusing his son.”

“What!?” 

At this point there will be awkward silence followed by facial expressions and a realization as the confidant processes the information and determines (or accepts) your guilt. Plus, news travels fast. 

This leads to shaming both publicly and on the sly with dirty looks and mumbling. No matter the outcome, the seed has been planted and people will always wonder – no, they won’t wonder, they will think they know. And, let’s not forget about social media.

It gets worse, much worse. The police investigate; they must. Now there are police at your home. The baby will be forced to stay away. I am questioned along with everyone involved. Whose judgement isn’t affected by such questions? They will always remember. You will always remember. Yes, I will never forget.

The best-case scenario is it is cleared up, but the stigma remains. Suddenly, your time with the little one is curtailed or other people just happen to always be with you two. It will result in lost opportunities. After all, who would ask such a person to coach a little league team? Plus, you yourself never feel comfortable with the little one, or anyone again. You actually doubt yourself, and you know you are being watched.

I sleep very little that Sunday night. I pack clothes and head to work the next morning – the house is quiet as I leave. It is a long day – I’m sure my manager would love hearing I had been accused of being a pedophile (there goes that promotion and probably job). 

After work, I do what any good criminal does – I flee. I find a nearby hotel. I have no intention of going home. I grimace thinking of being almost 50 and unable to go to my own house to avoid a 28-year-old. Can I ever be comfortable in that home again?

I spend the rest of the week at the hotel with nightly conversations with the wife. Her telling me to return, but never actually confronting her son and getting the who, what, when, where and how of the story. She tells me it was nothing, that I am overreacting. 

How do you not overact (or just plain act) to being accused of such a thing? 

My mind wanders to the night in question. It was just me babysitting. We acted out scenes from movies, I chase him around the living room and we laugh. I play like an elephant and he jumps on my back. I thought nothing more of that night after that.

On my third night at the hotel, she says the stepson spoke about it with his biological father and grandmother. The imagined gossip and judgement are nauseating. Apparently, he downplayed the incident saying I was wearing loose shorts and how Ben was sitting. The accusation plays on a loop in my mind and returns me to a sunny day as an 11 year old.

A guy showed up in the parking space in front of our neighbor’s trailer – turned out the neighbor had a son. I did lots of chores for them to earn money, and they had never mentioned a son. I stood and watched as he worked on his car. After an hour, he finally acknowledged me and asked for help – I handed him tools. He was impressed by my knowledge of the wrenches and sockets. Dad had taught me well.

He slammed the hood of his yellow Duster and told me to get in. I stumbled into the passenger seat while struggling to close the massive door – he ended up walking over and slamming it. He fired up the car and sped out of our trailer park bouncing over the random speed bump – fumbling with the recently installed Hurst shifter all the way. 

We ended up at the park, he kept speeding up and slowing down and eyeballing me from the other side of the car. He asked if I liked girls and how often I touched myself - laughing with each question. The car came to rest in a dark area under some trees. He slammed the shifter forward into park and reached over, touching my leg. I was scared and confused. He abruptly stopped, holding his hand in place with his gaze meeting mine. He stayed in a trance before pulling back. He placed both hands on the steering wheel while shaking his head back-and-forth while mumbling to himself. I kept wondering what I had done wrong.

He revved the engine and sped away. We stopped for ice cream and wandered the city before returning home. As I exited the car, he came around and grabbed me by the shoulder while slamming the door. He pushed me down and knelt beside me, said the Lord’s Prayer, handed me a necklace with cross pendant. He squeezed my shoulder, digging his thumb into my shoulder blade while reminding me to tell nobody about our trip. I slowly walked the short distance home. I never saw him again.

I check out of the hotel after a week and return home. We are all home off and on that weekend with the little one too. I keep my distance feeling eyes upon me. The little one does not understand Pop Pop’s absence and distance. This continues for a week, and then one night I stumble upon my accuser in the kitchen.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“You know the things you said to me, the accusations ...”

“Yeah.”

“I hope you understand nothing you imagined happened, and I would never do anything to harm that little boy or any child. If that ever happened, take a gun and end me.”

“Yeah, I know.” A faint smile forms on his lips.

“You know, when I was 11 …” I stammer and cough. Our eyes meet and I stop talking.

“Yeah?”

“Never mind.” I realize it does not matter. He would never understand, nobody would understand.

It was a terrible, short conversation. One of the hardest moments of my life - a failure. All of our conversations are now measured. It bothers me there was never an apology. 

I remember the stepson being 10 years old and coming inside from playing, telling me about an older guy playing with them. I erupted and stormed out the door to find the guy, the guy ended up being mentally disabled so my anger was quickly diffused.

The accusation was never raised again, everyone seemed or tried to forget it. However, I cannot forget it and it always makes me wonder plus regret my dysfunctional upbringing where nothing was ever discussed.

I still wonder if he felt no need to apologize because he thought it was all true. It is what I always will think. If so, why continue to bring the child around? I can’t bring it up, I can’t say it out loud.

Missing (revised)

“Are we really going to do this?” She mumbled into his mouth.

“I think so.“ He pulled away and sat back.

“No, I want to, it just seemed, I don’t know, we’ve been so close so many times,” she pulled him closer.

“Yeah, there have been a lot of false starts.”

“Say it first.”

“Say what?” He did not realize there was a script – this was all new. Was there a magic word? He immediately thought of saying please.

Silence, she squinted, the hot breath on his face was disconcerting.

“I want you so much."

“I need to know it is more than that.”

“You know that.” 

“Do I?”

“Of course you do.” Her tone was annoying.

“Do I?”

“I love you?” He hoped it didn’t sound like a question. This seemed like what she wanted to hear, but it was weird to say it. He hadn't said it to anybody in years. 

“I love you too,” she beamed while reaching back and pulling the white polo off.

Their eyes met as he pulled his pants down and nearly tripped. They fell to the couch. This always looked so much easier in movies. It was strange as it had been so long. 

“Do you have protection?” She planted her left palm on his chest saying stop. 

“What? No, I didn’t think this would happen.” He rolled to the right and awkwardly tried to rest on an elbow.

“I think Dave bought some a while back. It was a big box, so one won’t be missed or maybe four!” She giggled, rolling off the couch while scrambling through a previously unseen door.

He surveyed the room and its jumbled contents. There was her husband’s stereo; his cd collection; Red Sox championship hat and there on the mantle a picture staring down on him.

“Here we go!”  

“Give me a second,” he fumbled with the package as the moment passed – no longer wanting to be there. He felt the eyes of the husband. He leaned back with a heavy sigh. He missed is wife, well ex-wife. 

“Ah, that feels good,” she had grabbed his hand and pushed it where she wanted it.

She sat up and pulled him toward her, but it was not going to happen. An uneasy hush filled the room, a clock loudly ticked.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just nervous, didn’t want to disappoint you.” It was better than saying he did not want her – ever.

“Disappoint me? I am so relaxed right now.” She laughed violently, throwing her head back. It seemed theatrical.

“Ah, I wasn’t sure.” He forced a laugh while realizing the huge mistake. The couch was old, like him, and everything else in the room – the term ironic popped in his head.

“You’re so silly, I can help,“ he raised a hand and stopped her as gently as possible. 

“Sorry, I’m just embarrassed, this was supposed to go differently.” He tried to explain it away as she recoiled. Suddenly, it all seemed funny, he could imagine telling this story to others, maybe right about it, a slight grin appeared.

"Is this funny to you?" 

"No, not really, but I could see somebody laughing at us, at my failure."

"Your sense of humor always surprises me." 

He raised and fumbled with the crumpled clothes. The open condom remained on the floor as a reminder of failure and bad decisions. He thought of a line from a show where the character says they smell shame.

“Nothing to be so weird about, we'll have plenty of opportunities, you want a drink?” She hopped up and strolled to the kitchen. 

He pulled on the pants and stood up, grimacing at his reflection in the window. He sat on the couch trying to avert the husband’s eyes as she loudly filled a glass with water and ice. For some reason, he could only find one sock.

“Here, sorry I could find only one clean glass,” she held out the half empty glass after drinking. He wondered how there was only one clean glass before remembering the sloppiness of the surroundings.

“That’s okay.” He pushed it away – the thought of drinking from the same glass was gross.

“Quit acting so weird. What is on the telly?” She flopped on the sofa, covering herself with a blanket, stabbing at the remote. The fact she called it telly was irritating. He stared at the blanket, not remembering previously seeing it. 

“Crap, Dave always handles this, you know how? There may be another remote.” She absently gave him the remote while searching. The tv erupted with one click. 

“I have to go.” 

"Hey, here is your sock." She tossed it at his chest.

"I am going to go." He pushed the sock in his back pocket - his right foot did feel weird with no sock.

“What? I thought you were staying; Dave is gone until Monday.”

“No, I have to work tomorrow.” The husband’s eyes trailed his every move, knowing he was lying.

“I thought you said …”

“Is that the right time?” He looked at the clock and then his watch which he remembered was on the coffee table.

“Well, I will walk you out.” She shrugged and laughed as the blanket fell to the floor.

“You better stay here.” He faked a laughed, grabbed the watch and turned for the door that seemed miles away. 

“Hold on, come here first,” she pulled him close for a kiss. He couldn't believe he had thought this was a good idea. 

“Later.” He felt the odd taste in his mouth as the door closed. He wanted to run. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually ran.

Rain covered the car as he drove, spotting the familiar McDonald's sign at the corner. He rushed into the bathroom and coated his hands, arms and face with the gooey soap.

He ordered a large Coke at the counter and then added a burger and fries. Eating as raindrops danced across the windshield. He started to call his ex, she would laugh at the story. He stopped himself, sniffling while munching fries.