"Mike, I’m home!" The sound of the front door closing was usually followed by the rattle of a key ring on the entry table. Not today. Today, the keys must have been pocketed because the first thing Mike saw as he emerged from his room was his father, James, already entrenched in his favorite armchair.
James was, without a doubt, a man of simple, rigid habits. The primary and most immovable of these habits was his absolute devotion to the daily newspaper. While the rest of the world received its news from illuminated glass rectangles, James preferred the crinkle of paper and the soft grey smudges of newsprint on his fingertips.
"He’s at it again," Mike muttered, a small sigh escaping as he leaned against the doorframe of the living room. "I live with my dad, James, who loves reading the newspaper all the day." He wasn't exaggerating. Morning, noon, or evening, if James was home and not actively engaged in another task, there was a high probability a newspaper was shielding his face.
Mike loved his dad, but the man's news-habit could be… consuming. Sometimes it felt like trying to have a conversation with a very informative rock. But Mike had a plan, a shimmering, handheld hope to break through the journalistic fortress his father had built.
With a determined look, Mike pushed away from the wall and started towards the armchair. As he moved, the mundane suburban living room seemed to fade, his steps quickening with a purpose that defied the slow-crinkle of the newspaper.
"Hi, I’m Mike!" he declared, and though he was talking to his father, the words felt like an internal mantra, a re-assertion of his identity against the dull routine of their shared home life. "This is not just any character. I am the protagonist of my own story."
"Mike, I’m home!" The sound of the front door closing was usually followed by the rattle of a key ring on the entry table. Not today. Today, the keys must have been pocketed because the first thing Mike saw as he emerged from his room was his father, James, already entrenched in his favorite armchair.
James was, without a doubt, a man of simple, rigid habits. The primary and most immovable of these habits was his absolute devotion to the daily newspaper. While the rest of the world received its news from illuminated glass rectangles, James preferred the crinkle of paper and the soft grey smudges of newsprint on his fingertips.
"He’s at it again," Mike muttered, a small sigh escaping as he leaned against the doorframe of the living room. "I live with my dad, James, who loves reading the newspaper all the day." He wasn't exaggerating. Morning, noon, or evening, if James was home and not actively engaged in another task, there was a high probability a newspaper was shielding his face.
Mike loved his dad, but the man's news-habit could be… consuming. Sometimes it felt like trying to have a conversation with a very informative rock. But Mike had a plan, a shimmering, handheld hope to break through the journalistic fortress his father had built.
With a determined look, Mike pushed away from the wall and started towards the armchair. As he moved, the mundane suburban living room seemed to fade, his steps quickening with a purpose that defied the slow-crinkle of the newspaper.
"Hi, I’m Mike!" he declared, and though he was talking to his father, the words felt like an internal mantra, a re-assertion of his identity against the dull routine of their shared home life. "This is not just any character. I am the protagonist of my own story."
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