186

David

David had his own way of seeing things, and sometimes he couldn’t help wondering if his own way of seeing things was not a good deal more than quirky or eccentric or endearingly odd. In other words, he could not be certain he wasn’t a bona fide nut job. On the other hand, a good deal too many people lived their lives bereft of creative impulse, the way David saw it, and David drew more than a modicum of pride from his voluptuous ability to think outside the box.

And so, when he came home later than usual that night and found his mother face down in her chicken-fried steak, his initial response, after satisfying himself she was actually dead, was to dial 9-1-1. 

But then it occurred to him that he would probably never have another opportunity to break bread with a corpse, much less his mother’s corpse, and how singular it would be, in not just his frame of reference but in pretty much everyone else’s, to do just that. 

And wouldn’t you know it? 

His mom had gone and overcooked the goddamn meat again.

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