We have a tendency to narrate our lives according to the History Channel sign that stands across the river in the Bronx.
“The History Channel sign isn’t lit.”
“Hey, the words are all jumbled on the History Channel sign.”
“It’s so foggy I can’t even see the History Channel today.”
Like every day, I get home today. Sit down on the couch and look out the sliding doors through the wrought iron fence of my balcony to the History Channel sign.
It’s still lit up, but the scrolling words aren’t scrolling. All it says is, “Tonight at 8PM.”
That’s redundant, I think. Tonight. At 8. PM.
I open the Cadbury egg I bought. Mom didn’t put one in my Easter Basket and even though I’m allergic to everything in them, they’re my favorite. I bite off the top half of the hollow chocolate. The oozing crème center sits within the remaining egg like a cup of sugary goodness just waiting to be devoured.
I look up.
The words have disappeared. Now all that stares back at me is the lit History Channel ‘H’.
I realize I’ve eaten the rest of the Cadbury Egg. Hm, when did that happen?
I flick a button on the remote control. Try to find a good movie, but all I really want to do is catch up on my shows. Green St Hooligans it is.
My roommate must have been watching television earlier because the volume is high enough to be heard across the river.
I glance over to the History Channel sign.
It’s dark. I can barely make out the golden H against its crimson background.
Something catches my eye.
La souris runs around the mouse trap and back into the closet.
I guess the television was too loud for him.
And I need to put out more traps.
la souris. the mouse.