"what are the units

that make up IP addresses called again?" my dad asks my brother as he layers shredded chicken and guacamole into a flour tortilla.

"an octet. isn't this your area of expertise?"

ignoring the jab, my dad turns to me--the computard, the son who as a kid never gave a crap about how the stupid machine worked save for installing games and typing book reports. "did you know that behind every web address there's really an IP address, which is really a bunch of numbers?"

i ignore the question and instead think about how my dad, a hot-tempered computer programmer for farmers insurance, ended up with my mom, a hypochondriatic beverly hills accountant who does christiane kubrick's taxes, and furthermore, how there are seventeen (i counted) places i'd rather be than having dinner with them at home on their 29th wedding anniversary.

just two days before i listened to richard bausch read his story "letter to the lady of the house" which was made all the more pointed by the gravelly and wistful texture of his voice. the story is about that old married couple we all know or have at least seen on tv, whose relationship has slowly and painfully deteriorated over the decades to a point where every dinnertime conversation becomes an argument that ends with her going to bed early and him drinking. long story short he writes his wife a letter while she's sleeping saying that all the years of misery have all been worth it for those rare moments of happiness. or something like that. i'd like to buy that, i really would, but am not so sure if i do.

i watch my mom and dad eat in silence and imagine all the things that they don't say to each other, my faith in the institution of marriage now as strong as my faith in the war on terror, or intelligent design. or that bitch hottie on flavor of love.