He didn’t hear what she said. He was watching his wife’s mouth — the little wrinkles dancing around her bare lips. Maybe it was because she usually wore that reddish-brown lipstick, only now did he notice the faint crow’s feet, subtly appearing here and there. After all, she was forty-five — why shouldn’t she have a few wrinkles? He hadn’t really noticed them elsewhere. Then again, he hadn’t really been looking. He only noticed them now because the light hit her face just so.
What could she have said?
He really ought to admit to the family that there’s something wrong with his hearing. But that would be the same as announcing: wife, kids — your father is getting old!
Then they’d have a good laugh at his expense. Yeah, right — no way! The way they’ve been behaving lately, it would give them the perfect excuse to tease him. Ah, the joys of adolescence.
Not that it’s even noticeable. For one, he’s gotten excellent at reading lips. And the kids? They’re ridiculously easy to outsmart:
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!”
“Say it so I can actually understand you! What am I — a mind reader?”
“Open your mouth, enunciate properly!”
“If you’re whispering to your shoes, ask them for a reply!”
He was still managing with his wife — for now. Since no one suspected he was hard of hearing, they usually repeated themselves without blinking.
It was really the stress that was starting to get to him.
When would he get caught? What if he ended up needing a hearing aid like some of his relatives? God, he did not want to go down that road — not at barely fifty. And then when he’d ask people to speak up, they’d hit him with:
“Put in your hearing aid, dad!”
What the hell could she have said?
Not long before, they’d been laughing about how his wife claimed the Sprite tasted like a chicken coop. Of course they laughed. Then he’d topped it by saying he didn’t know many people who could actually recognize what a chicken coop tasted like.
He had heard and understood every single word — despite the fact that they were sitting in the middle of a water park, surrounded by nonstop noise and chatter.
Later, his wife had stood up — she needed the bathroom. She lifted her cup, twice, and said something quite seriously as she gestured.
Shame he wasn’t really paying attention.
She probably told him not to drink it.
Which would be weird — because he never drinks her stuff. Everyone knows that Mom will nurse a soft drink for a whole week — if she ever drinks anything other than water at all.
And she definitely wouldn’t say the same thing twice. Why would she? She doesn’t know he can’t hear.
So most likely, she was telling him that this time, he should drink the Sprite.
Which actually made total sense — she had said it tasted like a chicken coop, so clearly she didn’t like it. And who’s the garbage disposal at home? Dad, obviously.
You don’t throw things out — not even if they taste like chicken bedding — because wasting food is a sin.
Besides, it was hot. His beer was gone. He wasn’t exactly craving the sugary drink, but whatever.
Hmm. It really did taste like a chicken coop.
Probably the paper cup.
Yeah, definitely. It had that faint smell of straw bedding.
There you go.
They never even had animals, yet now he could clearly identify the taste of a coop — and straw bedding.
Too bad the kids missed that.
They could’ve all laughed together.
Then again, the way they’d been acting lately, they probably would’ve used it against them at the first opportunity.
There she was, finally back.
Time to head home, maybe.
“Did you drink it?”
“Yes, of course — you told me to.”
“Are you kidding me? Don’t you know me at all?”
“I… I mean…”
“You know how slowly I drink,” she huffed. “I told you before I left for the toilet not to drink it — and look at you.” She shook her head, annoyed. “Why didn’t you just get your own? Instead, you sit there playing deaf…”