It was in my purple folder along with crimes against the concept of writing that I am forced to consider youthful indiscretions. I was, at the oldest, 14 when I wrote this. I'll explain further at the end.
ETA: The formatting's being a bitch. Sorry. At least it's readable.
All things considered, it was a normal night.
We had sat down at the table for dinner, my parents and I, and as we were eating, we made casual conversation.
“You don’t seem to be doing a lot of schoolwork this year,” my father said to me.
“Why don’t you ask your teachers if you can work ahead?”
I bit my tongue, choosing to just smile, knowing his intentions were good, but his idea was still half-baked.
My mother thankfully changed the subject.
Or, perhaps not thankfully, considering the new one she came up with wasn’t new at all.
I made a conscious effort not to sigh into my—eugh—creamed spinach as she spoke.
“So, dear, what’d you have for lunch today?”
“Meal for one combo number five.”
“Oh, really? And where did you go?”
“That Chinese place a few blocks away from my office.”
“What?!” my mother exclaimed. “After that horrible incident that happened a few weeks ago!?” I wondered vaguely what that incident might have been.
My father made no reply. The silence hung in the air a moment, and we all decided to ignore his dining habits and go back to what was on our plates at that moment. It was then, with a mouthful of chicken, that my mother perked up and froze.
My father and I started at her a moment, trying to figure out what she was doing. Then I heard it. A clicking. Sharp and quick, like a poor showing of synchronized fire-lightening in the Caveman Olympics. It was coming from outside. My father, by the blank look on his face, evidently still couldn’t hear it. I was about to put down my fork and point to the open window, when my mother picked up the bottle of soy sauce we had out for the rice, and put it to her ear.
I stared at her in mild shock as she shook the bottle, looked at it, stuck the nozzle close to her ear, looked at it again, and then finally put it down, frowning.
“Are you al-“
She picked up the creamed spinach and held it up to her ear. The bowl was tipped, and some fell onto the floor, but she didn’t notice. My father and I exchanged worried glances.
The kitchen was silent save the clicking and the hum of the refrigerator. The tinted windows that surrounded us showed only our reflections. My dog remained curled up on top of my feet under the table. The blinds swayed gently in the breeze. Everything was normal except for the clicking.
My mother had now moved on to the salt and pepper shakers, and, as a means of testing them, was dispensing their contents all over the kitchen table. When she got to the gravy boat, I decided that I had to stop this immediately. I got up, went to the window, and shut it.
The action looked so completely natural. My mother had picked up the gravy boat, and while I was afraid she was going to pour it all over the place to see if any part of it was clicking, she instead spooned a bit onto her chicken, replaced it back on the table, and began eating. I sat back down.
After she finished chewing and swallowing, she spoke. “Did anyone hear that noise a second ago?”
The ending is slightly dramatized. I did close the window, but my mom was slightly more lucid about it. The last line is real, though, as is every action involving my mother and the food. Yes, she really poured salt and pepper all over the table, stuck the top of the soy sauce bottle into her ear, and actually thought it might have been the creamed spinach making that noise. And, yes, that is what my parents talk about at dinner. It's sad, really. ^_^
