“You know, it feels like it’s been a while since we’ve talked to each other about more than how our workday went,” said Dave.

Elizabeth sat in the kitchen with him while he cooked; she was exhausted physically and emotionally. She stared at the boiling pot that Dave was stirring, watched the steam roll up when he turned around, looked at him briefly, then returned half of her attention to the phone in her hand.“What do you mean?” We eat a lot of pasta.

“We weren’t born to pay bills and die, right?”

“Right.” Hey, he listens to me.

“I want to talk about more than how hard it is to pay bills while we die.”

“I love you, Dave, but that’s a little heavy for right after work.”

Camus stood beside Elizabeth’s chair, a pleasant look on his face while she scratched the top of his head, still scrolling through the feed on her phone with her hand that wasn’t free. Heh, that’s funny. Hm, that’s interesting. Huh? I wonder what that means for the state things. I wonder if dad will message me back. Ooh! I’ve got a good comment for this post; nah, there’s no point in sharing whispered her mind like television static shushing softly in the background.

Dave reached in the fridge and grabbed an apple ale. He extended it out to his wife, holding it by the tip of the neck. She looked up from the feed with half-awake eyes going back and forth between him and the drink.

“We weren’t born to pay bills and die, right?”

She grabbed the bottle. Dave twisted off the top before he let go; he turned back to the fridge, reached in, and grabbed one for himself. Elizabeth watched him take a long swig.

“I want to remember who you really are,” he said looking down at the bottle in his hand. “I don’t ever want to forget the woman I married. You’re more than someone who just goes to work every day. You’re the person who decided to tolerate all the problems and complications I bring to your life, and for that, you deserve all the respect and adoration I can give you.”

“You make me sound like I’m an angel or something,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, we try to be,” said Dave. “None of us are any good at it, but we all still try to play the part. I wonder if that’s just what happens when a culture marries solipsism with the death throes of theism.”

“You sound so pretentious right now,” laughed Elizabeth. Sometimes I wonder, Dave, do you even know what you’re talking about?

“Hey,” said Dave like a good cop on a bad police force, his voice growling and his eyes squinted. “At least I sound like something in this world full of noise. At least you can hear me at all. Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Does he take himself seriously, or is it just one big joke to him?’ To tell you the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement.”

“You forgot yourself?”

“Yes. I myself forgot whether or not I just take myself seriously.”

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“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘do I feel lucky?’ Well, do you, punk?”

Elizabeth giggled with Dave. Compassion oils many of life’s joints, none so much as the trigger that controls laughter. It is hard to laugh with, alongside, a man you despise, yet his friend may roar and slap the table. A spouse can easily create hysteria where the world sits in deadpan. A friendship without inside jokes is like an old bike left to the weather. Dave’s wife, his best friend, constantly laughed with him, at him, and to him. She laughed because of him. No one else thinks I’m funny. No one else needs to; she’s the only one I need to. Fools do their best work when they come and get to know us.

He stared her down with squinty eyes, pointing his apple ale at her like a .44 magnum. She squinted back, holding her bottle to her face, pointing at Dave, just as ready to fire.

“Well, which am I?” he asked, keeping the voice. “Dirty Harry or Leslie Nielsen? Clint Eastwood or Frank Drebin?”

“That’s not fair; they both took themselves seriously! That’s why Naked Gun is funny.”

“Man’s got to know his limitations. Some people just don’t have a sense of humor.”

“I thought you wanted to talk.”

“This is talking. How is this not talking? I’m saying words; you’re saying words. We’re talking!” said Dave playfully, his voice getting a little high now.

“Alright, Seinfeld! Are we talkers? Are we talking? Is this what we’re doing with our lives?”

The stove hissed as a froth boiled over the edges of the pot. Dave remembered he was cooking. He took the boiling pot over to the sink.

“Have you talked to your dad lately?” he asked as he poured the noodles down into the colander and the steam up into his face.

“No.” Why would you bring that up? “Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just haven’t heard back from him. He kept saying he wanted to see me before Christmas. He said he wanted to sit down and talk before Thanksgiving. I didn’t see him before Thanksgiving. I don’t think I’ll see him before Christmas.” What do you want me to tell you? The guy’s made a lot of mistakes. That’s all I’ve come to expect. He’s crushed my hopes again and again, and I’m done. I have to be. Is that what you want me to say? I don’t know how to say it; thoughts and feelings aren’t the same as words. I don’t know how to say I wish he’d call, but I’m not surprised, although I’m still hurt. I don’t know how to fix it. Is it even something I can fix? No, but I still care. I still hurt.

“That sucks,” said Dave with utmost sincerity. “You know when you’re a kid and you have a recital or a play or a show?”

“Yeah…” Best just to forget about it.

“Sometimes, it means a lot when you look out into the crowd and see your parents’ faces.”

“Yeah, and sometimes it means a lot more when you don’t see them, when you can’t find them, when they’re not there. Different but more.”

“You’re right. Not seeing their faces can make you anxious. Even seeing their faces can make you anxious. But either way, they can’t help you perform. You’re not going to score any extra points because they were cheering. You’ll probably forget about them when you start your monologue. That doesn’t mean they get to leave the theatre.” “No, it doesn’t.” Where are you going with this?

“It doesn’t mean they aren’t part of the experience because they can’t feed you your lines, or remind you not to skip that note; for some reason, it’s just really important that they see what’s happening. It means the world that they cared enough to sit there at all. It’s a shame we can’t appreciate that patience when it’s here. It’s a shame it sucks so much when it’s gone.”

Elizabeth stared out at nothing. Dave, you’re trying to help, but I don’t need a wise man to tell me what to think. I’m not looking for that. I just need someone to listen. I don’t see why you don’t get that… I don’t get that. Why don’t I get that? Why do we never just listen?

“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was rambling. I want to listen to you talk about it, not the other way around.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m just glad you’re here.”