"I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves." Ludwig Wittgenstein

Monday, November 23, 2009

Dirty Dishes

Listening, now, to an old song play in the background, “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” Richard stood at his kitchen sink, and peered at his reflection in the darkened window. The soft melody wound around him as he pictured the singer’s sweet voice and long, red hair. How much, he thought, Bonnie Raitt didn’t look like Lola—not a bit, thank goodness.

The tears began to well up in his eyes as Bonnie sang, “’Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t. You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t.” He reached for the next dirty dish, mechanically sunk it in the soapy water, and desperately tried to look out into the night, to see something—anything--outside the window, but saw, instead, only the pale reflection of a man weeping over dirty dishes leftover from tonight’s dinner for one.

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