I can never get a word in edgewise as he rails about his wife. Like when Dad would dunk me underwater “for fun.” Is that why I take it? The doormat, the sounding board.
As he babbles on, I imagine dunking him like Dad did—voice gurgling, arms thrashing. On the phone, at the bar, in the park, I disconnect. I’m in another world; it’s hard to tell the difference.
Now his wife has left him, and he needs a shoulder to cry on. Won’t I have a beer in his backyard beside the new koi pond?
For fun, I think.