Fiction

Toast

Matt Sumell

... I suck at making decisions. My younger brother, on the other hand, doesn’t. He slept with three women, decided he liked the third, and married her. This is despite our on-her-deathbed-in-the-den mother saying, “AJ, you know I love Tara, but don’t you think you should have some fun first?” He squeezed her hand and told her his mind was made up. I set about the business of unmaking it five minutes later, in the kitchen, by demanding he honor our mother by fucking more girls. He looked me right in the hairdo and said, “Sorry, bro.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” I said. “Apologize to that woman in there, ­because you’re breaking her fucking heart. Then apologize to yourself when your marriage falls apart in ten years, but now you’re balder and fatter and can’t get the quality ass you can right now. Then reject the apology ’cause you don’t deserve forgiveness, you divorced piece a shit!”

“You’re a moron piece a shit,” he said.

“I don’t think so.”

“I know so.”

“Well here’s what I know so: Mom made the mistake of not fucking enough people before getting married, and she’s telling you not to make the same mistake. She’s being a good mom to you, and you’re not listening, and I don’t think you’re seeing, either, because I’m pretty sure Tara’s face is a dirty sneaker with googly eyes and a wig on.”

“You’re eating Mom’s pain pills?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I love her,” he said. “Be happy for me.”

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