The cruel dance.

Daddy sat opposite me at the restaurant. Mom sat next to me in the booth. Daddy sprung into a one man performance. Glee. Mirth. Zeal. He packed a power punched line up. "Hey Diby...!" he said expecting my mom to engage with him. "Hey Diby....!" She smiled. Nodded. She retreated to that space behind her eyes, the place only she can access. She made her shoulders small. I grabbed her thigh and rubbed it through out the meal. She didn't return the contact. Turning 45 degrees to almost face me was all she could handle.

That didn't slow my dad down though. Unperturbed he carried on speaking in exciting tones. I realized then our roles for the night. Daddy needed me to keep the conversation going. Daddy needed to pretend it was all normal. That he was normal. That she was normal. That we were just a normal family eating a normal meal on a normal Saturday night. I actually had zero desire to go out that night. But seeing them all washed and ready in my drive way was all that it took for me to pull my sulky self out of my sulky socks and set myself straight.

Daddy has this thing about Mom's car. He says it is just perfect and so smooth. The second we got on the road out of the subdivision, he floored it, going 80 for a short stretch. I told him not to accelerate whilst turning like that, someone has to be the adult here, but actually the short burst of speed was thrilling and it left my heart pounding loudly in my ears.

Moms laughter burst through her lips like a guffaw. When she turned to me her sapphires were glistening and lit with an inner radiance. I think Daddy risks getting super speeder tickets just to make mom smile. I wonder if the state troopers would see it was a necessity and not necessarily risky behaviour.

Across the table, Daddy and I joked. I told him about bringing "guns to the gun show" and made him feel the place where my muscles are supposed to be. I told him that my brother had told me he would bring the guns, I just had to bring the beer.  Daddy told me I should work on my triceps. I then showed him hey we do this, and we do that, all whilst being comical to make mom laugh. Her laughter is kind of breathless. There is no mimicry or reinactment or comments. It is the hollow sound of someone watching who can no longer engage. It has an eerie sadness of a perpetual observer.

The thing is I think we all subconsciously know it is not real. I just think we're not ready to give up pretending we're normal.  For as long as mom can eat her mashed potatoes and her ribs, we will be doing our little song and dance. And Daddy when it comes to Mom's car. I say floor it.