The boy, coming in from an afternoon swim, found himself famished and weak. He spotted a white plastic bag on the table and he opened it up, revealing a tupperware full of some sort of leftover.
Alright! Fettuccine! So good! He warmed it up in the microwave and sat down and prepared to eat it. He added crushed red pepper and ate it with pieces of bread. It was absolutely delicious.
The pasta completely hit the spot. His spirits were rejuvenated. There was still some left so he proceeded to finish it up.
At that moment, the father came in through the front door, heaved a great sigh, and said to the boy, "Ah hey son, I'm just here to pick up my..." He was stopped mid-sentence when he saw that his son was eating the lunch he forgotten to take to work.
The father fell down onto the couch, his legs failing him, and stared off at something that the boy would never see. The boy watched him, perplexed. His father hadn't finished his sentence, he had no idea what was wrong.
Finally, the father turned to him, his eyes now full of tears. With a look of shattered dignity (he was openly weeping in front of his son; this was supposed to never happen, he was supposed to be a strong figure for his son to believe in), he said to his son, barely able to form the words, "You have no idea how much I was looking forward to that Fettuccine...
I love Fettuccine."
