A PUPPET ON A STRING

Chapter 7

The weeks passed without any noticeable changes in Frank's life. His mobile had remained silent, and Marilyn went about her waitressing.

The habitual routine of boredom. Life continued to ignore him. And passed him by without interest.

"There's letter for you." Saids Marilyn from the kitchen as Frank walked inthe door.

"Oh." Said Frank surprisingly, thinking a company had made the effort to reply to one of his dozen application.Then saw the envelope. And all hope shattered. The IRS. The last letter he wanted to see. He stared at. Weighed it in his hand. Gauging its thickness and contents. Thin. A letter of some kind, perhaps a warning. A worse, a notice.Statements would usually be thicker. Like a forensic surgeon, he had dissected a number over the years. And like many letters before this, had not bothered to open.Having engaged with the IRS over the years as an accountant. Many of whom were no more than glorified civil servants wielding power and control over others. Trolls. How people survived was not their concern. Recalling how they had once said it wasn't their concern how people survived, just that the calculation was done correctly. They had reduced people to a calculation. At that point, Frank had given up on them. Much as they had given up on Frank.He folded it in half and then half again.

Before burying it deep into his pocket. Deciding he would flush it next time he was having a bowel movement.Knowing if they were really after him, they would come knocking.

"What was it sweetie?" Marilyn asks innocently.

"Nothing much... Just a statement." Frank lies, not wanting burden her with his problems. She would have enough on her plate if immigration ever caught up with her. Being out of work was only temporary, Frank told himself. As was Marilyn.Spooning Marilyn from behind, he warps his arms around.

"You smell nice." Frank complements his lover.

"Go wash up. You're all grubby." And shuns him away.

He begins to kiss the top of her head, and then her neck."Wash up bad man!" She warns him again.Splashing the cold water over his face, the man in the mirror stared back at him Frank. Frank stared back at him."What am I supposed to do?" Frank argues with the man in the mirror.Taking the folded letter from his pocket, begins to tear it repeatedly and throws it into the toilet bowl. Allowing it to stain with water and sink.

"Shit-heads."Mutters Frank, and flushes the intrusion away.

The man in mirror watches on unmoved.

"Can't do anything about it 'til you get a job." Reminds the mirror-man.

"Yeah I know." Frank agrees.

"Something will show up soon. In the meantime... You need to look afterher... And your kids... Especially Jack."

"Yeah I know." Looking towards the kitchen hoping Marilyn wasn't over-hearing any of the conversation.

"Have a drink to calm your nerves. Frank... Tomorrow's your lucky day."

"Always tomorrow... Why never today?" Frank questions.

"Get out of here." The mirror-man tells Frank and watches him leave."

Who you talking to sweetie?" Marilyn asks setting the table.

"No one. Just myself." Frank answers.

"Do you want a drink?"

"Just a small one."Frank pours her glass of white wine, and a bourbon for himself. Before taking his place at the dinner table to await his dinner. Same routine, different nights for the past seven months. Closing his eyes he makes a wish. Or a prayer.Asking that tomorrow would be different. That something would turn up to move him from the pothole he found himself stuck in.