The table was silent between them, and Simon silently wished that he hadn't taken the seat adjacent to his mother. Although she didn't say much, he knew that he was being watched by the despicable eyes between her crows feet. But the main thing that bothered him, the real main thing, was that although the only sounds bouncing off the mahogany walls of the dining were the sounds of metal forks on glass plates, they would inevitably be interrupted. But for now, Simon only exchanged glances with the Picture of Jesus in The Last Supper, which was posted up on the wall in front of him.

"So," she said and continued to chew her fried ham. It was only morning and Simon could feel bad mojo crawling through the creaky wooden floorboards of the house, and here it was about to present itself. Of course, she couldn't wait to finish chewing before starting a sentence, she had been wanting to get this conversation rolling for a long time. Simon's mother sucked a miniscule piece of ham out between her yellowed teeth and said, "did you finish taking your meds?"

Simon poured some more hot sauce onto his eggs in anxiety. She was going to put a gun to his head, wasn't she? She needed to feed off of his misery. He had to look at her before their meeting was over or leave the beast unfed and angry. "Simon?" she asked him again, extending her hand across the table and leaving an inch short of touching him.

"What?" he asked. The fact that he didn't turn his head towards her, only turned his eyes towards her made him feel slight accomplishment with the scalding elixir of guilt.

"Did you take the medication? You know, if you don't do what the doctor tells you, it's right back to therapy." She was happy to throw that in.

"Ma, it's a head doctor, I think I have enough sense to trust her word. Plus, the meds are only one brick of the mansion. You know, I probably need a physical therapist to get over the muscle dysmorphia," he said with reluctance. Was she pulling him into her game? He didn't know. But the good thing was that she would stay silent for a few seconds. He had said the words: muscle dysmorphia. She was stunned.

He finished the last of his eggs whilst savoring the aesthetic of breakfast food. The yellow of the yolk; the red of the hot sauce; the white of whatever that was -- he would look it up later.

"You didn't answer my question, Simon." she stated plainly. He could tell that her game was over at this point, somehow. Her eyes seemed more content. Maybe. Maybe he was just crazy, he didn't know.

"I'll take them when I get back, ma." He got up and left the remains of breakfast on the table. She would take it back to the kitchen like she always did; he thought that she thought that doing this would make him feel properly mothered.

"Simon," she said and didn't look up. He stopped in his tracks before he could even open the door. "To see you fail in life would be my greatest unhappiness."

"Okay."

--

Simon looked upon the bodega from the front door like it was a familiar hunting ground where he and a few select others from his clan ruled. Whenever he entered this place -- the messily organized home of slushees, hotdogs and cinnamon buns -- he felt the brutal truth.

To them, people like the cashier of the bodega, he was the perfectly attractive metrosexual well-to-do rich kid. And sometime, when he was in his tweens and watching shows like The Sopranos and Desperate Housewives as if he was an adult, he had formulated that since he suffered from the disorder of muscle dysmorphia, he was a punk to his own niche. He was avante garde. But as he looked over the bodega, where normal people roamed, he always knew that no matter how avante garde he thought himself to be, he would be in a different league.

Simon gulped with dismay and indulged himself upon buying two boxes of Hot Pockets and Spaghetti-Os, which a normal middle-class family would have frequently in their generic Whirlpool refridgerator. As he slid it across the caramel colored counter, he looked up to see the attractive cashier. He was obviously middle-class; he wore Abercrombie and Fitch. It was badass and exciting, and Simon made a mental note to start wearing Abercrombie and Fitch.

Simon knew that the cashier knew instantly that he was gay from the way Simon stared at him. Although he was uncomfortable, the cashier was obligated to wish him a nice day. Simon wasn't obligated to say shit, because he would never be out of money, but it didn't come off like this was true. Simon thanked the man and silently pretended to care about how plastic bags are contributing to the world's destruction.

And as he left, Simon looked backwards upon the cashier with jealousy. A mediocre life with challenges and potential thought and humour that came so easily because it was the only thing they could do to get their minds of problems. He probably had problems, and his family probably had problems. Simon would kill for problems like his.

Simon turned around and looked across the Town Square where he saw the library. He had the choice of going home, watching television and eating cinnamon buns or going to read about the secret lives of other people. He chose the latter.

And at that moment, it became clear to Simon that he was a broken person.

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