I don’t mean to stare.
The dog has found something fascinating in the grass and so I’m standing here in front of your house longer than I planned.
You’re in your recliner, watching a prime time news show like 20/20. Your wife is in the kitchen; I see her down the hall. She’s putting dishes in the dishwasher. You change the channel.
You have pictures on the wall, daughters maybe? Grandkids? The curios cabinet filled with tea cups and saucers sits dark in the corner of the room.
This is so ordinary as to be wholly unremarkable. Nothing here is special. But I cannot stop looking.
Maybe you had an argument yesterday and still, you aren’t speaking.
Maybe you have a secret you want to say.
Maybe she knows already. Maybe she doesn’t care.
Maybe she does.
Maybe she is already planning Thanksgiving dinner.
I remember you have a daughter in the Army. You must have to distract yourselves. You’ve learned how to Skype.
The woman takes a seat on the couch, says something. The dog is ready to move on. I’m lost in this tiny movie. I have all the plot I need and the actors are brilliant in their roles.
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