Sunday Dinner

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"You seem quiet. You're always so deep in thought. Just stop for a little while,"he said, dipping a fork into his spaghetti and taking an overfilled bite. "You know I can tell these things. You can't hide anything from me, you know that."

"Sorry" was the only word I muttered back. I absent-mindedly stirred the spaghetti in my plate as I eyed the Sunday paper across from me at the table. "Christie vows to veto gay marriage bill in New Jersey" was the headline.

That damned Christie. What was the problem with gay marriage? How does a gay man marrying another gay man interfere with your own marriage? Christie, what a poor excuse for a governor.

First this and now he's cutting the tenure for teachers and ruining the funding for education. No wonder my mother can't sleep at night. No wonder she tosses and turns until she gets up at 5:30. Then she teaches those brats all day and when the bell rings, she comes home to tutor the ones who are too stupid to pay attention when she's talking in school. And why does she do all this? Because, you dear dad, can't provide for her or me. You who dropped out of college, you who barely makes enough to pay for one of Gov. Christie's suits.

"Sometimes you just have to relax, sweetie," he says, through another bite, his dissended stomach poking out from beneath a Budweiser t-shirt that's held together by holes. My mom nods her agreement, her tired eyes wary and glazed over as she took a bite of the meal cooked after a thirteen hour workday.

"Right, sorry, Dad," I say, my eyes still downcast at the paper. I take a bite of the meal myself, unable to focus enough to even taste it. Stupid Christie.


Created: Aug 06, 2012

Tags: story

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