I knew I was too late the moment my hand touched the remote. I recognized the warning signs, yet moved too slowly. The tinkling of a slightly flat piano. A young square-jawed professional sprinting across an office block. The feeling of insecurity in my wardrobe.
We were snuggled on the couch, safe from the hordes of side-swiping St. Louisians rushing to buy milk and Wonder Bread. Our house was drizzled with ice and sleet, but the pizza was warm and the television funny. The space-heater was running, full blast.
I nearly made it, but Ian’s ears are quick to obsess. He heard the music, heard the drum. Just as my finger pressed ‘Mute’, his eyes sparkled and he shouted, ‘Go, boy, go!’
Why, Dockers? Why?