Six Hours

You keep going over what was said and what you should have said.

At Thanksgiving, Leo’s brother-in-law Ray said, in front of eleven people, that Leo’s new business “sounded like a hobby with a logo.”

Everyone laughed, including Leo, a thin laugh. Then he passed the potatoes and said nothing, which he considered the mature thing to do.

On the drive home he said plenty. He said it to the windshield. He built the speeches he should have given: crisp, devastating, with a pause in the middle for effect. His wife, Nora, drove and let him run. She had learned long ago that a speech like this one finished on its own schedule.

At one in the morning he was still going. “And another thing about Ray,” he told the ceiling.

Nora, half asleep: “Where is Ray right now?”

“What? Home. Asleep, probably.”

“Asleep. Since about ten.” She turned over. “He left the table hours ago. You’re the one still holding him.”

Leo opened his mouth to argue and found nothing in it. He tried the best line anyway, the one with the pause in the middle. In the dark, with no one to hear it, it came out thin. Ray, it turned out, was snoring in a house across town with no idea he was currently on trial.

Leo did not forgive him that night. That came later and took a while. But he put the speeches down one at a time, the way you put down grocery bags after a long walk. His arms felt strange and light.

He fell asleep around two. Ray had a four-hour head start.

What to notice

The insult lasted one sentence. The replay lasted all night, and Leo was the only one attending. Anger needs a person to keep it going, and often that person is the one it’s hurting.

A question to think about: Who are you still carrying that they put down long ago?

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