“Did you enjoy your time off?” asked one of them.
“You owe me sixteen hours,” said the boss. It would be easier to hear this sort of shit if I’d made some shinier memories, or accepted that the day after Thanksgiving is a work day at this place, or felt that Thanksgiving was still my favorite holiday.
It used to be, when I was little (and also when I was as tall as I am now, but thinner and with zits) and we went to my grandparents’ for five days in a row. Looking back I imagine that my parents must have dreaded those visits. So many days in close quarters, and nights in a lousy bed with your son in another, in the same room. At least we got a room with a door, and not just a pullout sofa; my grandfather and uncles all snored like walruses.
The Perseverant 