toenail

The man had the sense he was running out of things to say. He’d been listening to a debate on the radio when the feeling first hit. The panelists were firing off point and counterpoint and all the man could think about were the streaks on the kitchen window and when he might get around to removing them.

This wasn’t some middle-aged woe is me cry for help, because, simply put, the man hadn’t told anyone. Not his wife, not his colleagues, not his kids when they called on the weekend, and certainly not some stranger he met in passing. It wasn’t shame or hostility preventing him; he simply felt it was a private matter, like clipping his toenails.

Losing my oomph, that was the expression that rattled around in his head, like he was an old keyboard whose pep had been reduced prod-by-prod. The image was no coincidence. He’d spent what felt like forever explaining this, arguing that, defending them, convincing himself. Little wonder cleaning windows and clipping toenails should sound so appealing.