Early

ballpit

She had to get up pretty early in the morning every morning.  Each morning an exercise in survival of the mundane and the mundane needed to be exercised until she was tired again.  Everything needed to be straight and even because without ratio what evidence was there that her life thus far had been equitable.  Her children were on track; all their parts moving as they should, a pair of perfectly syllogistic representations of their parentage.  Pretty early in the morning indeed if she was to keep pace with rambunctious boilermakers of children.  A pox upon disarray in their home of aluminum and white.  A pox upon clutter and asymmetry as ratio may be obscured by his peccant organizational tendencies.  Put him to paces of penancial landscaping for the duration of the season to teach him the wages of obtusely abject household organizational habits.  Plus he uses all the toilet paper and sits the new roll on top of the spindled empty cardboard husk out of some slothful spite designed to send her into a state of perpetual nervous breakdown.

An indulgence here or an indulgence there didn’t really do any harm. The florescent light rack she had installed in the garage for some barely explained art/modeling project was no longer enough.  He would figure it out and then make her take it down.  William or Ana would fall into it and be covered in carcinogenic phosphorescent death.  It wasn’t so much a matter of pride than a matter of sense that was not to be had.  The constancy of her ratioed face couldn’t last forever and he would see the way she looked at the new children, not unlike the way she looked at the old lost child, but he hadn’t seen that so was unblissfully unaware of her abysmal thoughts in the faces of her genetic yield.  More oblivion was the only means of escape and she had ways of finding it anywhere anymore.  Gaze gone dead, she looked ahead and saw the rising sun, the days they pass and more ahead until her day is done.

Sasha sits at a table in Burger King while her two children argue about whose turn it is to get in the ball pit.

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About christophermwilt

Design, invent, write, parent, cook, create View all posts by christophermwilt

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