Delicate clouds hung tender post-dusk, and the haze across the crescent seemed both ominous and calming.
The fork rolled across the callouses of his index and thumb, drifting gracefully into an accidentally practiced hand and finding a familiar place trained in the ways of consumption. The microwaved meal before him was a conglomerate of dinners gone by: half a dozen Brussels sprouts, a strip of baked chicken, the last, luscious square of lasagna, and a serving of kerneled corn that would have been meager even as chicken feed.
He scooped the utensil deftly, but before the food met his mouth, Darren hesitated, a foreboding sensation taking the place of desired satiety. The thumbnail moon captured his attention, and he sat, slab of precious lasagna perched dubiously upon his fork, and stared through the window that occupied a frontal majority of his palatial, unnecessary home.
He hadn’t seen his children in weeks, or at least it felt as such, and as he considered the lunar tug upon his consciousness, he took a bite of self defense with the pasta. After all, the bread won was his and his alone. Sharing was an act of graciousness, and he owed nothing to the parasitic intransigence that called itself his family.
Darren’s most recent encounters with the brood were shout filled and short, the woman wearing his grandmother’s ring instigating the worst of it.
Sitting beneath the chandelier, he counted the hours spent commuting, the days hidden in his hovel above the garage surrounded by memorabilia that meant nothing. The escapism decorated as decompression that kept all living things at arm’s length.
Darren shoveled the haphazard meal between his teeth, paying little mind to the stabbing, scraping motions that pushed his food into a messy heap on the plate. He didn’t look down as an errant Brussels sprout tumbled onto the rug. He didn’t flinch as the back door slammed and the sounds of revelry filled the rear of the house.
Darren stared at the crimson curve hanging in the night sky, the only cosmic light on the horizon. His wife and a gaggle of socialites descended upon the kitchen, gabbing and grabbing wine glasses from the cupboards.
The group cascaded through the dining room in a halo of overlapping conversations, and the stranger Darren married stopped briefly at his side. Startled, the fork slipped from his grip and fell to the floor near the spilled vegetable. He bent to retrieve them both and the woman hissed.
“Dammit Darren, we steamed this a week ago. We’re going down to the game room. I’d appreciate if you mingled, but heaven knows you won’t. What is that slop you’re eating?”
Before he could answer, she whisked herself across the room and back to her friends, the echo of their laughter disappearing through the hall and down the staircase. He kept his eyes fixed on the moon and gently pushed his plate from the table, mashed up lasagna and corn splattering against the rug.
He jerked his head over his shoulder to catch glimpses of the crescent as he closed the door to the basement, fully furnished with a bar, billiards, and a stone fireplace stocked weekly with perfectly dried wood.
Music pumped from below as he dragged the leather sofa into the hall and in front of the door. He craned his neck toward the window while he cranked range knobs and opened the oven.
Darren didn’t remember turning up the thermostat or dumping matches into the ducts. He wanted only for a window as he absentmindedly gathered items from the garage. He didn’t notice the scent of turpentine on his hands until he was already outside.
He shambled slowly across the lawn, wet grass from the automated sprinkler system soaking his socked feet. Thick smoke rose from the house into the breeze, adding another layer of haze between Darren and the bloody bow of the moon, and he walked toward it without diverting his gaze.