“Me too.”
Frank looked down.
“I wish somebody had done it for me.”
The two men sat quietly.
Then Owen leaned forward and hugged his father.
I closed the door gently and went into the kitchen.
I stood over the sink removing popcorn from my hair.
Twenty-three pieces.
I counted.
The next morning, Frank remembered none of the conversation.
He called me “the girl.”
Asked where his wife was.
Complained about the coffee.
Owen gently reminded him his mother had died four years earlier.
Frank cried as though hearing it for the first time.
Owen held his hand.
But something inside Owen had changed.
Two weeks later, we went to lunch.
Owen ordered a burger without onions.
It arrived covered in onions.
He stared at the plate.
His thumb started rubbing against his finger.
Then it stopped.
He raised his hand.
“Excuse me.”
The waiter came over.
“I asked for no onions. Could I please get another one?”
