BREAKFAST AT DENNY’S
Stephen W. Brodie
Bringing the wispy digits to his face,
he leans back on the counter next to
the young couple waiting to be seated.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he says,
wheezing slightly as he draws another
breath, and lets out a patient sigh.
He stares at the payphone on the wall
across from him, remembering the day
that he called his mother to tell her
that he was sick, and how his father
had hung up on him.
That was the last time he spoke to
either one of them. Now he is all alone;
but he knows that this is as it should be.
The phone rings. He looks up from
sweaty palms and reaches for it, but
it only rings once. He turns to seat
the couple waiting beside him, only to
find that they have since gone.
Later, at home, he brushes his teeth,
preparing for bed, and stares at his
reflection in the mirror before switching
off the light, disgusted.
He shuffles off to bed, slips gently
between the sheets,
and cries himself to sleep,
again.
