Home Life.

After this morning’s workout – observed in silence – the odd couple came downstairs. Chris made some lame wax on / wax off joke. Angela said she couldn’t believe that I hadn’t told her about Arthur Enright.
“I had to hear it from some carver trying to chat me up.” She’d been into town again, failing to make friends. “He said he was behind Enright as he walked down the stairs, and he’s holding his son’s hand, and then his son asks him about some trip to New York. How old’s his son by the way?”
“About eight.” I said.
“He must have been the one at the theatre. I thought he looked weird. Looks like Damien.”
“Not really.”
“Well he looks pretty serious for an eight year old.”
“Why do you think he’s weird?”
“Because of what the carver said. They’re walking down the stairs and the boy starts talking about the astral plane, like he’s swallowed a book on it. Starts asking about split consciousness. And then…”
“And then?”
“Then Enright’s not there anymore. They get to the bottom of the stairs and the little boy’s holding an empty space. Still got his left hand up in the air, but what this guy thought was Enright is just a shadow of the man in front.”
“Poor Arthur.”
“Which one?” Asked Angela.
“Both. He didn’t mean to leave his son like that – the power took over.”
“It’s not much of a childhood though is it.” Said Chris, venturing a comment. He likes to have an opinion. “He’s not going to grow up normal is he.”
“He’ll grow up knowing how the world works.” I said, as Norman came down to join us.
“Morning chef.” Said Chris. He either calls him that, or Mr. Mom.
“So Angela.” I said. “Norman’s teaching me how to cook, Samuel’s teaching me to fight. What are you going to teach me?”

She looked appalled, looked at Chris, and walked off. It took me an hour to figure out why.