A dishevelled man with pointy ears & thin spectacles sits across from me at the airport. I watch as he attempts to show his son the finer points of how to use a Slinky correctly, a Slinky which his mother bought from the airport gift store for $37 [It was a Slinky & shiny, I had to see how much it was].
The little boy twists the flawlessly coiled metal to the point of no impeccably coiled return & it snaps. The man says nothing; he sighs & stares inanely at the grey clad column to the side of the transit lounge.
I wonder at what point in his life did he become anaesthetized to his reality and give consent to the truth that it may never change?
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