He could feel her glare as he drove their sedan away from the quiet, suburban street. They passed snow covered trees surrounding picturesque stone houses and rode over rock salt, plenty of it sure to stick between tire treads. Soon they’d be back in the city, where a layer of litter hid beneath the snow for now, until the sun would eventually reveal it, dirtier than ever.
“What did you think of the name?”
She waited a few moments before answering him. “I like it.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes before he broke it. He knew he should apologize for what happened earlier, and yet, he said, “Look, there’s no reason to have a coed baby shower.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I didn’t see any other husbands there making a scene!”
“I didn’t make a scene. The guy asked what I do for a living and I told him.”
“Yeah, I know, Mark, I know.” She raised her voice. “I know all about it. You told him you’re studying overpopulation and its effect on global resources. You told him your conclusion: two kids per family. Didn’t you know he and his wife have four kids?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Couldn’t you have just said you’re a scientist? I mean, why would you bring up overpopulation at a baby shower? Don’t you think maybe it’s, um, I don't know, not the best topic?”
“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I’ll call the guy tomorrow and apologize. I certainly didn’t mean for the conversation to turn toward vasectomies.”
“Okay, fine. Just so you know I was mortified when I heard the two of you shouting all the way from the kitchen, but it’s fine, I’ll get over it.”
“Thanks Sheila.”
They took the Broad Street exit and were on their way home when he suggested they head to Chinatown for an early dinner. He agreed to stop at her favorite place rather than his, and they were on good terms once again. His fortune cookie, full of wisdom, told him there's a time to swallow pride. He thought of China’s one-child-per-family policy and decided he stood firmly against it, though he would’ve understood if the limit were set at two. He himself had always wanted at least three children, but he’d never told anyone, not even his wife.
Showing posts with label China. Show all posts
Showing posts with label China. Show all posts
Robert Drifts
Robert opens the backdoor and lets Bubba out. The grassy backyard is extraordinarily large for a city row home. Aged wooden fence enclosing him, Bubba can run around to his heart’s content.
As is his Saturday morning ritual, Robert ascends the rear stairs with his freshly poured cup of coffee. He breathes heavily when he reaches the third floor and thinks of younger years when scaling the Art Museum steps would’ve felt like less work. Easing into his most comfortable chair, purchased twenty years ago when he was a ripe twenty five year old rebel, he places the coffee mug on a table to his right and lights a cigarette. The chair faces out the bay window protruding from the third floor’s back room, his study, and he sees a landscape his wife wouldn’t recognize.
For the best, he supposes, to replace abandoned buildings and old, empty warehouses, relics from an industrial economy long since displaced from Philadelphia to China and wherever else. He sees the many young folks starting their Saturdays and imagines himself in their shoes, new to the neighborhood, not a care in the world, meeting his wife for the first time at Ortlieb’s on a Tuesday night.
Closing his eyes, drifting, Robert strolls with her down 2nd Street, drives while she adjusts the radio, stands beside her in their garden. . . .
Bubba barks loudly, startling his owner. Robert re-lights the cigarette and walks downstairs to join the chocolate lab. He lets Bubba lick remnants of coffee from his mug as he stares off into uninterrupted blue sky, trying hard to feel something other than sadness.
As is his Saturday morning ritual, Robert ascends the rear stairs with his freshly poured cup of coffee. He breathes heavily when he reaches the third floor and thinks of younger years when scaling the Art Museum steps would’ve felt like less work. Easing into his most comfortable chair, purchased twenty years ago when he was a ripe twenty five year old rebel, he places the coffee mug on a table to his right and lights a cigarette. The chair faces out the bay window protruding from the third floor’s back room, his study, and he sees a landscape his wife wouldn’t recognize.
For the best, he supposes, to replace abandoned buildings and old, empty warehouses, relics from an industrial economy long since displaced from Philadelphia to China and wherever else. He sees the many young folks starting their Saturdays and imagines himself in their shoes, new to the neighborhood, not a care in the world, meeting his wife for the first time at Ortlieb’s on a Tuesday night.
Closing his eyes, drifting, Robert strolls with her down 2nd Street, drives while she adjusts the radio, stands beside her in their garden. . . .
Bubba barks loudly, startling his owner. Robert re-lights the cigarette and walks downstairs to join the chocolate lab. He lets Bubba lick remnants of coffee from his mug as he stares off into uninterrupted blue sky, trying hard to feel something other than sadness.
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