Suffocation
by Lynn
Jorden
It's just like every family restaurant. And he is
just like every man who eats in a family restaurant. Tall-ish, fat-ish,
ugly-ish, and dressed in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. He is dining with
his wife. Frizzy blonde-ish hair, about two-hundred and thirty pounds,
dark circles under her eyes. The pair is completely unremarkable.
Variations of them are scattered throughout family restaurants in every
state. They're sitting in the red faux-leather booth, chatting amicably,
or rather the wife is. The daughter of one of her friends has just won a
scholarship, so this excites her. She gesticulates rather wildly; he sips
his iced tea and nods. A few minutes later, their food has just arrives
and she is clearly thrilled about it. Her eyes light up as the waitress
puts a plate of tilapia in front her, cooing about how delicious it looks
and how it's been forever since she's had tilapia. He simply thanks the
waitress for the pasta dish he ordered.
The
light coming through the windows hits his back, darkening his face and
lightening hers. She continues talking about her friend's daughter. He occasionally interjects with the
one of those stock, perfunctory phrases that can be used interchangeably
in light conversation, things like "Really? Wow" and "And so then what
happened?". His eyes rest on her when he asks these questions, but the
rest of the time, they languidly drift about the room. Several times he
turns around and looks briefly out the window before turning back to his
wife. She is downing her tilapia with prodigious speed, simultaneously
explaining how she thinks her friend's daughter got that scholarship
because she was president of student government. She's very impressed; she
thinks maybe that would be a good thing for Chris to do.
"Yeah,
maybe…" he says. "But wouldn't that be too much for him? Student
government and basketball?"
He has the detached tone of someone who knows they should care, but
doesn't. His wife continues hypothesizing, but he is gone. His eyes are
already somewhere else: the electric candles in the sconces on the walls,
the girl at the cashier, the refrigerator full of beer next to the bar.
She
reaches her conclusion with a sigh, and looks down at her tilapia.
"This
tilapia really is delicious," she says.
"Yeah,
so is this pasta," he says.
Silence
falls on the table for the rest of their meal. She focuses intently on her
tilapia, deliberately putting each bite in her mouth. His eyes continue to
wander. They sit at the table, waiting for the check, before his wife
breaks the silence.
"Do
you know, honey, Ann called me the other day, you know, my brother's wife,
and she was telling me that their dog has been shedding a lot more lately.
Like, more than usual. Isn't that weird? They have to vacuum all the time
now—"
"Are
you guys done here?"
At
the sound of the waitress's voice, his head jolts up immediately. Her
smooth, low voice is in stark contrast to the shrill tones of his
wife.
"Yes,
thank you," his wife says.
As she gets her wallet out of her
purse, he says "I've got this, honey" and slips a credit card in the
little leather book. They sit in silence, awkwardly trying to occupy
themselves with threads on their sleeves and rubbing their foreheads. The
waitress returns with his card and he curls two dollar bills around the
salt shaker for a tip. They both pause for a deep sigh before hoisting
themselves off the seat, and heading for the doorway.
