Saturday, August 21, 2004
William Smith looked down at his dish of broiled chicken, potatoes, and green beans, assumed a confident air, removed a handgun from the holster at his side, and fired seven shots into the plate before him. Satisfied, he lifted his fork to his mouth, chewed the first bite, and pronounced the meal “delicious.”
Subsequent mouthfuls proved equally satisfying. Licking the last scraps from the plastic plate, William exhaled, leaned back, content, stomach full, vague gnawing satiated, relaxed happiness dribbling from his lips, sleeve wiping face, bulging eyes retreating to their bags. Picking his teeth with his knife, he looked across the table at Gary, who didn’t seem to care.
A lit candle, short and stubby with a faint vanilla scent, wavered between them. The white wine in both their cups wasn’t chilled quite enough; William had run into traffic returning home, and in any event the waxed paper containers ruined any aesthetic effect. They finished the bottle regardless.
“If I could only cease to speak in clichés,” William thought, “I might then be truly happy (though language is really just a series of clichés congealed into custom). I should probably engage in some retail therapy.”
Three hours later, William shot Gary with his last bullet during a commercial break in the nightly news (a car commercial featuring celebrity voiceover and orgasmic mountain scenery). The TV anchor smiled and nodded.
“Or perhaps I’ll just masturbate.”
Subsequent mouthfuls proved equally satisfying. Licking the last scraps from the plastic plate, William exhaled, leaned back, content, stomach full, vague gnawing satiated, relaxed happiness dribbling from his lips, sleeve wiping face, bulging eyes retreating to their bags. Picking his teeth with his knife, he looked across the table at Gary, who didn’t seem to care.
A lit candle, short and stubby with a faint vanilla scent, wavered between them. The white wine in both their cups wasn’t chilled quite enough; William had run into traffic returning home, and in any event the waxed paper containers ruined any aesthetic effect. They finished the bottle regardless.
“If I could only cease to speak in clichés,” William thought, “I might then be truly happy (though language is really just a series of clichés congealed into custom). I should probably engage in some retail therapy.”
Three hours later, William shot Gary with his last bullet during a commercial break in the nightly news (a car commercial featuring celebrity voiceover and orgasmic mountain scenery). The TV anchor smiled and nodded.
“Or perhaps I’ll just masturbate.”
