He has no questions to ask. He offers nothing to say. He leaves for work in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase, like a servant, a robot, or a martyr, perhaps a little of each. Nobody knows what’s in the briefcase. There must be papers in there. Whatever it is, it pays the bills. Lips shut tight like a vault, locking in secrets from a mysterious past. He’s lived in 3 different countries, 4 different cities and been married 4 times. He has never spoken of any of it. He’s the only human who has never cried once. He balances a square pillow on his head to be silly. He looks, but not too far.
There are multiple seats to choose from, but he only sits in only one, the left side of the love seat. For 38 years he sits only there. Nobody knows why. Maybe his reasons are the same as Archie Bunker’s. Maybe it’s because it’s directly facing the TV, on the opposite end of the room. It’s too far to hear the TV, or perhaps he’s losing his hearing, perhaps a little of both - so the volume must be turned up full blast. Maybe if the TV is loud enough it drowns out his thoughts. He could sit closer to the TV but he resists change. Any change is bad. Changes must have been bad in his past. The sofa is sunken in from worn out springs. The room is filled with a permanent haze of cigarette smoke. The walls are stained yellow.
Every night the sound of ice cubes dropped in a glass are heard, followed by the release of air from a 2 litres of Diet Coke bottle. Black Velvet whiskey enters the glass too, but nobody hears that. It’s the cheapest Rye available. These sounds repeat over and over, until the only sound is snoring and the sound of a 90’s keyboard and the twang of a Fender Telecaster. It’s theme song for Law and Order.
The narrator speaks, “ In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: The police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories”
Nobody must cross the path of the TV in between commercials. There’s no pause button in the 90’s and he must not miss what is said. He’s seen this episode before.
There are 8 or 10 cigarette-sized burn marks from freshly lit cigarettes left to burn, on the seat cushion, the carpet below, and the end table. The fibres of the carpet and love seat are burnt, melted, hardened, like his liver. Each one represents a day of his life, a bottle of Black Velvet, an episode of Law and Order.
Every night his son cannot sleep from the muffled sounds of the TV and walks upstairs at 2 am to turn the volume down. He won’t turn it off completely, it might wake his dad up. His dad works hard and needs his rest. Each day at school the son falls asleep on his desk. At night he sleeps on a futon in the cold, dark basement. The nothingness of the basement contrasts the sights and smells of upstairs.
Sometimes he falls asleep on the sofa with his legs straight and arms crossed, like a man in a coffin. Maybe it’s an expression of his desire to die. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe he’s died already. His son sleeps this way, too.
In two months it will be his 76th birthday. He moved into the house 38 years ago when he was 38 years old. Doctors predict his liver cancer will kill him in two months. He has never celebrated his birthday, but he hopes to survive to see this one. Until then, he sits in his seat.
Tension headaches 
Struggling with medication
i do not want to be a mom. 
