Paul
A short story
He had enjoyed ten years of being totally irresponsible, living at home with his boring mother. She wasn’t always boring, but as she approached her seventies and without a husband at home to occupy her, she was as dull as you could get.
Complacency was something he had grown accustomed to, but all that was about to change. He could feel it as he woke up one morning, expecting the usual waft of a fresh cup of coffee from the kitchen.
There was, however, no sweet smell of those Columbian beans, and the silence in the house made him uneasy. His brow was wet with perspiration as he made his way down the dark hallway into the living room.
It wasn’t like his mother to still be asleep; she was an early-to-bed and early-to-rise sort of person. As he made his way down the hall, he couldn’t help but notice the cascade of antiquity framing him on both sides on the wall.
Aging portraits of ancestors and stills from his youth. He caught the eyes of one particular portrait. He couldn’t place it at first and wondered if he had ever noticed it before. He hiked up his sweatpants and leaned in for a closer look.
The photo was of his mother and another woman. The mystery woman was standing in front of a stage, arms held high. She was dressed in slacks and her broad shoulders bore suspenders. Yet even as…
