For you, my dear.

I walk in the front door and see him. He is sitting on the sofa, fixated. I know better than to interrupt.

"Hello" I mutter softly and take our dinner into the kitchen. I emerge a few minutes later with my plate. He hasn't moved, his brow is furrowed, and beads of sweat are accumulating on his forehead. He hasn't eaten, a beer is clutched tightly in his left hand. Liquid comfort.

The air is thick. I say nothing. So much tension.

He starts to pace and runs his free hand through his hair. I don't understand what is happening anymore, but I know that it is close to the end. I just want it to be over already, I have had enough.

Then it happens. The moment of truth. His eyes widen. "No!" he shouts, "No! No! No!". He hurls the remote control at the sofa.

"It's just a game." I laugh.

I'll know better next time.