Electric Soul

“Oh, that looks delicious,” the lady crooned, shimmying her crotchety body excitedly. “Have you ever seen a nicer meatball sub, Irv? So saucy!”

“Mmm,” her husband nodded, smoothing a napkin over his lap.

Joey wondered how often they spoke, like really talked about things deeper than the aesthetics of a sandwich. They were nearing eighty, if they weren’t already there, and had no doubt been together for a large chunk of those years. When did people run out of things to say to one another? There had to be days or years when they had nothing to say. How did they push past those times to be sitting in a booth at D’Antonio’s a century later, commenting on balls of beef? Marriage was a fucking mess of commitment. And boring, it was surely boring. It rarely ever worked, and when it did, Joey doubted it was worth the effort.