Tic Tac / Gordon Ringlet

He's eating dinner and his eyes come across a thing of tic tacs sitting on the kitchen table. It barely registers as his mind wonders from whether the small space heater in the nursery might be responsible for the recent uptick in the electric bill to his strategy of portioning the salmon and risotto on his plate so that he's left with neither too much salmon nor too much risotto when he's down to his last few bites. He makes a mental note to switch off the space heater after dinner and has masterfully distributed both fish and side dish so that each may be enjoyed with every bite hence forth and, with nothing left to consider, he reaches for the tic tac container, looking for further material for his mind to digest.

The words "less than 2 calories per mint" roll across the plastic box just underneath the product name and all of the sudden he can't take it anymore. Here he is doing his part, eating his modestly sized fillet of salmon and carefully measured scoop and a half of risotto, trying his damnedest to lead a healthy life by keeping a respectable waist line while balancing the added responsibilities of being a husband, father, dog owner, and all around 'head of household' and this cheap plastic box in his hand declares that breath mints now factor into the fight as well. It seems to him as if nothing can just simply be what it is. Just when you think you have a relative handle on things, however fleeting, more of life squeezes its way through your clenched fists. Like these fucking tic tacs. Don't forget about them! They too must be considered.

The thing is - he thinks he can't take it anymore but he can, he has, and he will. It's not so much an ascension of the white flag as it is an internal melodramatic show of frustration. This frustration leads him to audibly exhale, lean back in his chair, and unconsciously scan the kitchen, making mental notes of each visible deficiency standing in between the life he lives an the life he strives for.

There's the unopened box of coasters that double as picture frames on the pantry shelf that could and should hold genial photographs of his family.
There's the entertainment center that serves as an awkward shelving unit holding the coffee maker, microwave, and toaster.

There's the Christmas themed cloth sack for holding plastic bags for picking up dog shit that hangs near the trash bin year round.

There's the kitchen table itself, rickety and so blatantly dated, purchased for $15 from outside a nursing home.
There's the dishwasher, or lack thereof.

And then there's the box of tic tacs. The fact that a box of tic tacs is even sitting on the kitchen table (along with a pack of handy wipes, a faulty light bulb, a dirty dish rag, and three days worth of junk mail) conveys a certain mismanagement of space and overall lack of organization.

The list mounts and becomes a dull ache in the back of his skull. He takes the final bite of salmon and risotto and drops his fork on his plate with an audible clank. The inevitable question of whether everything is OK now comes from across the table and he briefly considers offering his wife his thoughts regarding the message on the tic tac and the resulting trail of doubts but doesn't, knowing her utter disdain for all things derived and philosophical.

Instead he flicks open the box of tic tacs, shakes two out, and pops them in his mouth.

Never has just under four calories been so refreshing. He says nothing, puts his plate and silverware in the sink, and walks toward the nursery to turn off the space heater.