Primordial: An Abstraction

68

I call my wife.

“You’re right in front of me,” she says.

I hang up the phone. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“I know,” she says.

“I’ll make it up to you,” I say.

“I know,” she says.

“How are the girls?” I ask.

She smiles. “They’re good. They’re playing in the dark.”

I don’t smile. “That’s good.” I don’t smile again. I haven’t smiled in years. “Do you think they remember me?”

My wife trashes the kitchen. “Maybe. Probably. You’re their father. You’re the rock,” she explains.

I nod. “Right. Right. Right. Right. I understand. That makes sense. Right. Right. Right. Right. Right. Right. Right,” I say.