i parked at a meter a block away.
it was past five.
no need to feed the meter.
we held hands and walked to the dilly diner.
getting to hear her shoes on concrete helped me feel better.
but i kept spewing revolting frustrations that had been fermenting in my guts out into the open air.
eight hours at work on a computer.
at some point, i don’t know when or why, i looked at the news.
when she came home and saw me on the couch, she could tell something was wrong.
i said, ‘can we go out to eat?’
i opened the door for her saying, ‘i know that justice has to fall on these people.’
i walked in saying, ‘if there is a hell, i am sure they are going straight there.’
the hostess was at the stand, and my wife said, ‘two.’
the kids are lined up single file walking through the little camp.
we follow the hostess to our table.
amanda orders water.
i get coffee and water even though i’m already worked up.
this place has great chicken and waffles.
i’ve never ordered anything else.
we talk about it all.
do we trust the electoral process?
does he accept losing an election?
could he attack an american city?
are we powerless?
we tell the server what we want.
he lets us know we’ve made great choices as he writes our orders down.
is there anything we’d put past him?
especially after this?
we joke about pierce brosnan’s warning in dante’s peak.
pierce was so wise, but no one listened.
living in two worlds is disorienting.
i tell her i’m want to do a livestream youtube hunger-strike.
‘what we’re doing is wrong, and to live as if it’s all ok is wrong.
and i’d rather die,’ i say,
‘than live as if it’s all ok, when i know how wrong we are’
it’s very dramatic.
the server asks if i want a refill of coffee and water.
i say, ‘yes, please.’
‘your food will be right out.’
complete self-sacrifice is the only capital capable of overcoming this… mammon.
anything less is cheapened as ‘virtue-signalling’.
should one act against mammon–the politicians marching on the camps, for instance–they are criticized for ‘virtue-signalling.’
these people must want something as a result of their actions.
votes, exposure, money, women, fame.
there can be no other explanation.
this is the final stage of capitalism: the total collapse of human potential as a result of a dreadful, crippling cynicism.
i look at amanda in her maroon dress.
she’s too wonderful for this world.
i say, ‘on the bright side i proposed a stunning fantasy baseball trade.’
our food comes out.
i pour sriracha honey and maple syrup all over my chicken and waffles.
slurping coffee and driving my bites into pools of syrup i plow through the meal.
we talk about possible train-car houses we might make one day.
she doesn’t finish her quesadilla, so i do.
‘it’s crazy though,’ she says.
‘that it’s happening like it is.’
i didn’t expect her to come back to it.
‘and to think just last year, arguing over abortion felt extreme.’
the server comes back to us and i order a piece of french silk pie.
she eats a few bites.
i eat the rest.
the server brings the check.
my plastic money covers it and i sign the receipt.
getting up i feel my guts bulge.
i’m all swelled up again.
my guts are hurting from being so full.
but this time it’s in a different way.