A small piece of toast sits on his plate. That is all.
On one wall he has a picture of two children. They are on a seesaw and the girl’s dress blows out as she descends. You cannot see the boy’s face.
He goes to the icebox and removes three purple crayons. Taking them to the table he stumbles and curses aloud: Damnit. He sits down in front of his plate and tries to draw upon his piece of toast. The cold purple crayon pierces through the hard bread and makes a mark against the white of the plate. Damnit, again.
His mother was coming over later to visit him. He both looked forward to these visits and resented them, thus tried not to think about them too much. She just comes over now and again he would explain to his friends, and they would nod.After she left he was in a sour mood. He returned to the icebox and removed all three crayons. Taking them up in his fingers one by one he proceeds to drop each one to the floor and then stomp on it, making purple marks all over the cool gray floor. Damnit he thinks. God damnit.