I poured out cereal for my boy. The sound of it allowed me to pretend that no one wanted to kick us to the curb. Boxes and canned goods lined the floor. I walked into the master bedroom and saw my wife wrapped in her blanket, still dead to the world. An egg shell colored light filtered through the curtains she made when we moved in. I squeezed her foot that hung off the side of the bed. I rubbed the bottom of it with the callused part of my palm.
“Leave me alone and figure out our next move,” she whispered.
“Let’s get our boy to his game first.” Her eyes, once blue, appeared to be the greenish color of a pond that was beginning to dry.
I walked back into the kitchen. My son sat at the table. He ate, but looked beyond the box of cheerios into the vastness outside.
“Ready to score some goals today little man?” I asked. This was his house, his kitchen. How could I let him down?
He nodded, and a soft dribble of milk spilled over his lip. It was all I needed.
Sean Daly
seangdaly@hotmail.com
The Waitress was New
Dominique Fabre