Mime

My mom was a mime, and yet somehow my dad would still tell her to shut the fuck up 20 times a day.

"But she's completely silent," I would protest.

"She's thinkin' ain't she? I can hear her fuckin' thinkin' and her fucking thinkin' ain't makin' me dinner."

"But it's 8:30 in the morning."

"What are you Captain Clock?"

Mom would just stay in character, silently being trapped in her invisible box. I would smile and Dad would grimace and spit, satisfied that his sputum always made it through her invisible walls.

"Why don't you mime your way into a wood box six feet underground you bitch."

I always thought that was a stupid thing to say since when she did speak mama always made her wish to be cremated very clear.

"I don't think you understand mime at all dad."