Joe De Matteo

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Four

The old man was half reclined on the couch.  The middle aged man sat in a flimsy dinette chair twelve feet away from his elder, the kitchen sink an easy coin toss in-line with his right shoulder.  Walled in and behind the closed door the commode, opposite the sink, formed the fourth corner of a perfect rectangle. 

The dust that moved through the air of the room was not visible in the cloaked darkness of the apartment; drapes and shades covered the windows tightly not allowing the strong winter sunlight entry into this place.  Only the soundless flashes from the un-viewable small TV screen, the steady blur of the LED clock in the microwave and a tiny nightlight in a plug by the bathroom door gave any illumination.

Invisible to the two men, an ant marched across the room in deliberate unceasing steps on a mission set to it by a Master ions before.

What happened between us?  These four words holding no geographic position of any relevance, hung in the stale air. 

Indeed.  What?

High hopes, disappointments, anger on the one hand, mistakes, foolishness, frustration and anger on the other.

The younger, so terrified by the question sat in silence, a motion, a gesture un-seeable.  The old man, an echo behind his lips and a tear in the corner of his eye, fell silent.

by Joe De Matteo

 

Joseph De Matteo, FalconRun, Inc., 31 Walnut St, New Windsor, NY 12553

Joseph De Matteo

 

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