11/20/2000 Geoff Ashbrook
It was a delicate balancing act of holding hands. He slowly slid his fingers around the can of tuna and lifted it off the counter, which was above and behind his head. She lifted up the chair by pressing up her knee under a rod that held the legs together, and she pulled the toe of her sock out from under the chair leg. She was holding a plate of lasagna in one hand, and a glass of root beer in the other. The bottom of the plate was getting hot. With an arch of Teflon safe polyethylene he tossed the spatula across the room towards the sink, where it clattered against the floor. His plate was being held between his feet a foot above the rug, and he slowly reached a hand out to press down on the can opener. The can turned slowly, giving him an advertisement-like look at the label, and the lid snapped up against the magnet. Then he flipped the can upside down over a red dish, and had to use a pâté spoon to get the tuna to start leaving the can with all the spring water that had accompanied it all the way from wherever in the world it had been canned. Rupture Farms perhaps. He put the red dish down beside him and pulled a well scratched brown lacquered tray out from somewhere behind him, and set it down out in front of them just past the edge of the rug. She let the lasagna plate slide off her hand and onto the tray whilst retaining most of the lasagna. He swung his legs over and lowered the plate, dragging his sock across the top of the piece and then sitting cross-legged without noticing. They were both looking at the glowing fuchsia oval in front of them, and then the mechanical purr began. She picked up the remote and turned it on. While it was an old show, they had never seen this episode. They'd been watching it for years now. Mr. Farthing who lived under the department store. Mrs. Trodder who lived in the suburban district and sold bootleg tablecloths while her sons were away at war. Mr. Binyett, who drove the bus by day and carved marionettes by night. The Gelson twins who were always knocking over Kent Rodger's prize winning roses in their crates, and always trying to get pictures of Rosa Pauling's parakeet who, they were sure, was really a mechanical recording device designed by the Belgians so they could corner the world chocolate market after the war. When a commercial came on the two of them let their lazy eyes drift over to the row of four large windows that decked the wall, just as another gas giant drifted through the frames almost filling them up one at a time.