Wednesday, September 18, 2013

walking through doors at golf clubs.

i had been pretending, feigning some fascination with what had just transpired, in order to bridge a philosophical gap between her and me, and with one pragmatic and utterly unfascinating yet incriminating statement, she burned the entire facade to the ground. so i gave up trying to please her in this nonversation, and opted instead to hold the door, and pretend to look for our children, whom, i was sure, were completely in the loving care of their other parents and warm roomful of adoring smiles. the carpet was red.

red carpets are terrible.

in having to come up with reasons to talk and then subjects about which to talk but with which there would be no drive to enter conflict, i had exhausted my present imagination and resigned myself to following some orders and filling some glasses. ice water is benign. except, of course, when it is not, there will always be condensation happening onto the table cloth and moistening and cooling one's hands before they are grasped flaccidly in failed handshakes and lips pressed together in grim attempts at warmth. 

ice water is tragic.