At six in the evening, whistling can be heard and the unmistakable smell of frying chicken wafted from the kitchen.
At seven, Carl sets the table and puts on some music. Then he waits.
At seven thirty, the food has gone cold. The table is full of food yet devoid of people. On the front porch, Carl sits with his dog, Koko.
At eight, the table is occupied again. Carl has finished his meal and is now placing chicken in tupperwares. The phone rings but before Carl could even get up, the message plays.
"Hey Grandpa Carl! It's Daphne here. Sorry we couldn't come today."
"...tell him our car broke..."
"Our car broke down and stuff. But I'll be there tomorrow, don't worry! Love ya, Gramps!"
At nine, he sits in his study in front of a typewriter. He types slowly, often checking if he spelled it right before continuing. The rust of metal contrasts with the wrinkles on his skin.
At ten, he is sound asleep in his bed and Koko is curled by his feet. Carl dreams of the days where his children visit him with their own family and enjoy his food, enjoy his music and enjoy his company.
