We were on the couch watching tv. Some kind of comedy roast with the vibe of an entertainment awards show.
I wasn’t paying much attention, I think I was drawing. Until somebody on the show said something that sounded, or felt, like putting out a cigarette on the skin of a baby.
One of the men, I think it was one of the actors — wealthy, famous, older, with a golden permanent tan, a bit weathered — typical – was asked a question about something. He joked, something like
“Try keeping a marriage together when 22 is still on the table.”
I look up and see his bright bleach-white grin flash as the entire audience allegedly cracks up. My lover chuckles too. It’s so easy to turn a deaf ear to asinine statements like these on the market value of women, and their particular replaceability.
There’s a word for this person that comes to mind. Douchebag. A proper pejorative term, since it’s based on a product that probably shouldn’t exist anyway.
Months later, I’ve forgotten the program and the people on it. But their laughter sticks with me, and my lover’s clueless accord, and that unsophisticated man’s totally oblivious, carefree smile.