spackle
My parents agree about most things: which contestant to support on American Idol, which neighbors have the tackiest lawn ornaments, the importance of home maintenance. My mother agrees my father’s boss is out to get him. My father agrees my mother has better taste than he does and lets her pick out her own birthday presents.
Even when my parents seem to disagree, it’s really just another way of agreeing. They agree not to be pushovers. They agree not to give themselves up. They agree to a bottle of merlot, and it agrees with them differently. After two glasses, my mother’s making dick jokes and firing gooey spitballs across the restaurant table at my cleavage. As my eyes roll, hers perk, and his deaden. After dinner, when we all sit on the living room couch, I watch her light up and him shut up and off. At his first snore, my mother studies the skin on his face, the way it sags like a wet t-shirt hanging out to dry, and even though it will take her all night to dry, too, she can’t forgive the way the wine carves his wrinkles deeper, not when the same drink fills her own agelines in and smoothes them.
