Village of the Damned and the Stepford Wives both waiting at the dinner table. Accusing eyes. They don't even have to say anything. Those black porcelain eyes say it all, reflecting my own dumb stare from just in the corner, putting the onus back on me, where it had always been before. Its the dumb stare I've seen before when brushing or shaving, like I'm apologizing to anything in front of me, apologizing for taking up air and having a place in this world.
It's not so much different than pulling up a rock and trying to get forty winks in a den of angry vipers. And me, now, thirsty for sleep, talking to a dog again. Not that they do me any harm, past the death of a thousand cuts, or even acknowledge me at all for that matter. I'm bled down now to a dragging pace. Such as it is.
My own issues confront me, tossed back at me, as if the cleaning lady washed my own dirty breakfast dish, then tossed a bucket of the grey waters back on me, as if to say, that is no better or worse than I deserve, but the most just of all balances, and then if things were to balance, maybe I'd be yet worse off, without a name even, not even allowed to lay eyes on the cold conjugal bed, much less lay in it next to her and dream. My mind wanders and my fingers lay on the cusps of my pocket seems, and that much is enough for her and must then be enough for me, even if I start screaming from all those dinner table pleasantries and then her cold, bitter breathing at night, with her little fluttering bird heart, and me holding the cage door shut and breathing heavily like some randy old grandfather goat who runs uphill for his kicks.