“It was twilight. It was dark. It was basically night. Any your father was wearing his sunglasses…”
My mother pauses for effect, head poised on hand. My father continues to spice his food with salt and pepper, giving no clue as to if he has actually heard or cares what she said. I guffaw, as I often do, and wish that my brother was here – the fourth seat at the round dinner table conspiciously empty, save for a pile of my father’s clothes and papers. Once the laugh subsides, my mother continues.
“He was driving home from dinner – your father had a craving for pasta so we went to Spaducci’s – and he refused to take off the sunglasses. I said “Jimmy, WHY do you need to wear sunglasses when it’s dark?”"
“Because the glare hurts my eyes.”
“But there was no glare, because there wasn’t any light.”
“Ugh.” Dad puts down his knife, but only pauses a second in using the fork, then uses it to gestulate. “Woman, you always tell the story wrong. It wasn’t that dark.”
“But you couldn’t explain to me why you were wearing the sungla..”
“Oh please, Sue, ya know the medication makes my eyes sensitive to the sun…like a vampire.”
I slightly interject with a question under my breath: “Is this like the medical reaction you have that your tongue burns and the only thing that will cure it is plain M&M’s?”
Neither one of them actually hears me, because my mother has now elevated her voice and my father is mumbling and using his silverware a little too loudly to cut his meat.
“You know how he is. He never listens to me. I think he was keeping them on just to spite me.” She pauses, a little twinkle of tease in her eyes, for his reaction.
My father hmph’s once more and says “I know I could see just fine.”
My laugh is now contained to a small, evil giggle. When I catch my breath, I ask “So what’s the rest of the story?”
My mother turns from giving my father the tired but still evil eye with a look of sheer confusion.
“But that is the whole story. It was dark and he was wearing his sunglasses.”
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