Two Vignettes

Outgrown

His demeanor was solemn. She pulled the same shit, criticized him for his silence, corrected him in regard to his career. She laughed and threatened to drive behind his work vehicle blaring protest chants, then stroked his face asking if he was okay. He did not react to her touch. He used to turn and look at her after one of her verbal jabs. He used to seek approval, search her eyes for remorse, an apology. Tonight, he was cold, sad.

“Why are you laughing?” he asked me directly, after showing me something on his phone.

“I didn’t understand. I’m sorry,” I said.

We both looked down as the laughter continued. She declared her job is just as dangerous as his. She sells and orders restaurant equipment for a living. His silence was the loudest thing in the room. His exposure to reality, to the worst in people, has caused him to outgrow his wife. His patience was thin, he was ready to leave. I recognized it. He didn’t ask why she was still laughing. He already knew. The tan line on his ring finger was gone.

The Stranger

A white sedan completes a three-point turn on a back road. As I approach, I notice a teenager in blue checkered pajama pants with dyed red hair. I do a double take. For a moment, it is my daughter. She walks toward a silver Jeep in the driveway, driver’s door open. I wonder where she is going. I am overcome with sentimentality and miss my daughter deeply. She is no longer the teenager in blue checkered pajama pants with dyed red hair. She is a stranger in my home.