Meat

Richard breathed. Heavy. His dull, grey eyes rode backwards as he groaned and slunk into the decaying pastel lawnchair. Only the finest. This time, he didn't even try to make small talk. Usually, I would have been glad; small talk is like performing the Heimlich on yourself. But Richard had become voided of all social niceties and his stagnant ale breath pierced the room from all directions.

Over the years I had known many Richards. There was the Christian Richard, who suddenly flaunted crucifixes on gold chains, and plastered the back of his El Camino with "God Bless America's". There was the love-sick Richard who drank cheap red wine and pretended to be "flipping through the channels" when I caught him watching some cheesy romance flick. But even the wall-punching drunk Richard was better than the rage-induced apathetic Richard.

"What, you just gon' sit there?" He asked as he shoved a piece of meat into his mouth.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, you just gon' sit there?" He caught my eyes for a second as if to punish me for not eating, but then he refocused on the meat. I traced the lines of grapes on his peeling wallpaper. The sound of his fork scraping the plate wrung in my ears.

"Dammit," he said. He threw down his fork and massaged the wrinkles on his brow. And in that one word he had expressed the hatred of his own inadequacy that had plagued him for years.

"I'm sorry," I tried.
"Don't be," he snapped.
Under the sickening heat of night we sat in silence.