by d. heidel

Singleton sits and he chews.  Beef for dinner.  Again.  The remains of one half of a cow sit in his freezer.  A four-pound pot of cooked and then chilled and then congealed ground beef sit in his refrigerator.  A pound of freshly-microwaved ground beef sits on his plate.

It is food.

Singleton sits and chews and then, running into a string of gristle with his right molars, decides against further chewing and swallows the mouthful down.  Warm, greasy, half-chewed, It slides down his throat.

He thinks of the wolves he has seen on Wild America, tearing flesh from a caribou.  Tear, rip, swallow.

He thinks of the Weissmans who live next door.  Surely, they are eating, too.  Six o’clock is the time for plates on the table.  The time to chew beef.

Fifteen minutes later, Singleton scrapes the remnants into the garbage, washes his plate, brushes his teeth, and goes to bed.

That is all for the day.

He thinks of Mrs. Weissman and how she must be brushing her teeth, too.  Straight and white teeth.  Lips, soft, but pulled back to allow for the odd angles of a toothbrush.  Pulled back.  Silent snarl.  It is the way that lips move when the teeth need brushing.

Singleton closes his eyes.  And thinks, too, of Mrs. Weissman closing her eyes.

He grunts.  Tomorrow is a day away.  Or tomorrow is oblivion.  How is he to know?  Tomorrow is a hidden secret.  He burps as he lies on his back and is surprised by the tingling reminiscence of ground beef that splutters into the back of his throat.

He rolls onto his side, swallows hard.  The room is dark and so there is no thought to bother his sleep.  Thought lives in the light.  Singleton lives now in the dark.  Right now.  And now.  And now.  And that is all.