Work Text:
The woman has a sip of horribly bland an obviously poorly-chanted free coffee before she starts telling her story to the small crowd:
"As soon as Dylan left for work that first day we put up a sign in the window advertising that we had room for rent. Maybe some people will think less of us for doing that, but when Dylan came home that evening he told us he didn't mind. Such a sweet kid. He knew that money had been tight for me and his dad ever since that scientist put our store out of business. Fake, he called us! Can you believe it? We made the watches like we've always made them, combining the honored tradition of exact machinery, dentistry and taxidermy. So what if they don’t tell time correctly, who decided what speed time should move in anyway? Certainly not SCIENCE. We’re the watchmakers, we should be considered an authority in this field, one would think! Time is not science! Sorry, where was I? Oh yes.
Dylan didn’t mind vacating his room and starting to sleep on the couch, he was just so happy to be part of something. I remember having dinner that evening, his father had made pölsa from pteranodon meat we got for cheap from a neighbor that still had some left. Dylan was so excited about his first day he could hardly eat! He went on and on about the studio, all of the equipment and how he’d met Cecil Palmer personally.
Maybe it was unfair of us to start putting his things up on Cragislist while he was still there living with us, I’m sure many of you have done differently, but it was just a matter of time. An inexact matter, of course, since there is no way to accurately measure something as fickle as time, but a matter of it nonetheless.
Don't get me wrong, we were of course as proud as any parents of an aspiring local radio journalist would be! But to us, as soon as he got that blood-soaked letter of acceptance, our son was already dead.
So for a couple of nights our dead son would sleep on the couch.
And for a couple of nights our dead son would have dinner with us and chat about what a great day he had with his inevitable killers.
For a couple of nights we would tell our dead son how happy we were for his happiness.
Then suddenly, quietly, and over night, as these things often go, our little town had a subway network. From that day own we ate dinner alone and watched late-night shows on the couch, and spoke no more to our dead son.
We rented out the room though, so that's a plus! To a very lovely young woman who is an exchange student of some sort. At Least we think that’s what she is, we don’t really understand her way of communication, but she pays on time every month and has a nice shrieking voice. So yeah, there's that.“
There are no applause in the room as the remnants of Dylans mothers words fades out, only the uneasy scraping of chairs and covered up coughs that made up the soundstage of shared experiences too personal to comment or salute. A somewhat noisy silence of understanding and companionship.
“So” Maureen clears her throat as she looks at the people sitting on cheap plastic chairs in a poor excuse of a circle “Who else would like to share today?”