Tiny True Tales

Grilled

At the backyard cookout, the beef patties look like little pink brains, flattened into nearly perfect circles, graying and shrinking with the help of charcoal and heat. My mother asks about my life, about my writing, my friends. I answer each inquiry casually, deliberately, but the responses only add to her arsenal of questions.

“How is your love life? Will you be settling soon? You are the only one who can carry the surname, you know.”

As if I could ever forget.

I don’t answer. Instead, I flip the meat, watch the flames juice the cortex of the defenseless burger-brains.