Page 13 of Rough

As he pushed the tines through the side of one of his eggs, I pulled the plate from his tray.

I grinned. “Be back in a minute.”

His hand followed the plate as I lifted it. “The eggs were fine.”

“It’ll just take a minute.”

I set his food aside, cooked two more eggs, four crisp pieces of bacon, and two pieces of toast. After arranging everything on a clean plate, I carried them both to the living room.

I held the plate over his lap. “Here you go.”

He reached for his fork. “Set it down on the tray.”

I shook my head. “Reach for it.”

“Just in case you forgot.” He lifted his arm slightly. “My arm’s in a cast.”

“Your fingers aren’t,” I said. “Reach for it.”

He glared at me.

“Your bacon’s going to get cold.” I arched an eyebrow. “Does cold bacon make your stomach churn?”

He sighed and reached for the plate.

I sat down on the end of the couch. “It’s called therapy.”

He picked up a piece of bacon, snapped off the end, and grinned. “I’ll call it abuse.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

“Doubt it.”

I normally ate fast. Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I paced myself to finish my food at the same time he finished his. When we were done, I stood, picked up his plate, and carried them to the kitchen.

“If you don’t rinse them now, the yolk will turn to concrete on that plate,” he yelled.

I didn’t respond, but I felt the same way. A dirty sink, a pile of dishes, or any other type of clutter drove me insane. After rinsing the plates, I walked into the living room and sat down.

“So, what do you like to watch on T.V.?” I asked.

He reached for his tablet and then situated it in his lap. “Nothing. At least not until Vanna comes on.”

“Vanna?”

He looked up. “White. Vanna fuckin’ White. Wheel of god damned Fortune. Her and that little shit of a cohost, Pat Sajak. Ever heard of it?”

“I have.”

“Well, you were looking at me like I was an idiot, I couldn’t tell.”

“You don’t watch anything during the day?”

“Watching the boob tube during the day will turn your brains to mush.” He lifted his tabled. “I read.”

He’d spent the majority of the previous day talking to his son, complaining, and sleeping. I couldn’t help but wonder if he felt our personalities weren’t compatible for anything more than a caregiver-patient relationship.

“What are you reading?”