An Albee Night

I come downstairs to spend the evening watching television with him. He's not in the living room. He's in the kitchen. He's preheating the toaster-oven to heat up a batch of frozen french fries.

"Do you want some?"

Imagining a night of heartburn, I say, "No."

We start watching NCIS. He's eating his fries. I can hear them crunch as he bites into them. I can smell their french-fry smell.

I ask him how high to preheat the oven.

"Four-hundred-and-fifty degrees. But I'll fix them for you. I can do that for you."

He does. In about twenty minutes, they are done. I go into the kitchen and spread them on a plate. I forgo the ketchup. Because it's in the ketchup, I think to myself, where "here be dragons" of heartburn.

While I am eating the uncovered fries, he sneaks glances at me and smiles.

Later, when I am ready to go to bed, he asks me, "When do you see your doctor again?"

"I don't know. January, February, I'd have to check my calendar. Why?"

"You've got to make him give you something to curb your appetite. You never stop eating. You're big as a house."

My chest starts to burn.