Akropolis

The Rod

The Rod

"This food tastes like shit," he grunted from the head of the table.

His back was to the window, curtains closed; his usual perch. He did not like to look out the windows or have anyone looking in, not at any point in the day. Never a peek, a dalliance, or a stray glance. Noises from the outside world did not attract his attention and curiosity was not one of his traits. It was just one of the many 'eccentricities' he had come to adopt.

That is what she was supposed to call them, eccentricities. The word phobia always came to mind but the doctor had been explicit that she never use that word. Phobia had more of a negative connotation and they were all about the positives in this household.

"It is what you wanted for dinner. Has your preference changed?"

"Stop fucking talking like that," he retorted sharply.

"Like what?" she uttered before she realized she should have just kept silent.

"Like a damn robot," Tom replied, his voice rising, the fork in his hand pausing between plate and mouth.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly and contritely.

He glared at her for a long moment, long enough for her to notice that his jowls had begun to turn puffy, the trace beginnings of a double chin growing behind the first, barely hidden by the three-day-old beard with which he always seemed to be carrying. His beady eyes were sharp with anger staring out from beneath his thick bushy eyebrows and she could tell from the redness on his cheekbones and bulbous nose that he had been 'dipping into his stash', as he was want to say.

She produced a wan smile and bowed her head, knowing that this usually produced the desired effect.

Another long moment passed in which she waited with baited breath, expecting any second to hear the scraping of the chair legs across the floor and the clatter of the fork on the ceramic plate.

She was under no illusions as to what would happen following that. She wasn't psychic; didn't need to be to understand that certain courses of action were habit and that the triggers never changed.

But what she had learned was deterrence and how a slight nudge in a different direction could often defuse a possible volatile situation before it occurred.

She had learned this trick over the years, and sadly enough, became somewhat proficient at it, if she was quick about it. When she was distracted or not quite as perceptive then she paid the price.

"The food packs have seemed a bit under seasoned lately," she said on impulse, not yet with the nerve to look up.

Tom grunted his reply. She could not tell if it was acquiescence, but decided to go with it nonetheless.

"I'll message them later; ask if they could send some salt with the next packs. How about some desert instead? The apple pie is always good and it's just about done hydrating."

"Yeah," he replied, and she finally glanced up to see him push the plate across the table. "Make sure you send that message. Let them know I'm not happy."

That was almost a trademark response.

Let them know I'm not happy.

It was all about keeping him happy after all. She knew that as much as anyone else. If he wasn't happy then someone had to pay. Usually it was her but sometimes he took his displeasure out on some lowly public servant whose job it was to log his complaints and send them along the appropriate channels to whoever handled such ridiculous demands.