“What was that look?” The stale gum hardening in Amanda Fukwith’s mouth cracked as she chewed with inappropriate fervor, considering they were waiting at a stoplight.
Seymour Fukwith, who was clearly driving the vehicle, had just accomplished many things at once, thus his addled expression. “That look?”
“That look. What was that look about?” Weary of the incessant barely gum, more like putty, she spit it out into her hand, balled it up, and placed it on the rim of an empty can of Coca-Cola®.
He made a face that looked like he swallowed a gnat, which was tickling his throat. “This?”
“No. God no. Why?”
He puffed out his cheeks, holding his breath until his face turned a shade of unhealthy. “This?”
Amanda crossed her arms, and slinked down in her seat to sulk. “Now you’re just fucking with me.”
“Please. I am not. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
She stared out the window as a homeless man, at least according to the homemade cardboard sign, approached. “It’s the same look you have while you’re sleeping. It’s half troubled and half content. What is that?”
Seymour revisited his previous thoughts until Amanda interrupted while pointing at him. “That’s it. That’s the look!”
“Oh yeah, I guess that’s the face I make when I’m thinking about the future.”
She was greatly disappointed at such an uninteresting answer. She expected poignancy or some sort of greater insight. She consoled herself by mumbling, “High expectations, boring vacations.”