It was in the old brown house where the willow bulged in the backyard above the roof like a depressed balloon. We were sitting at the cherry wood dinner table and they were arguing about something when she said him, “And there you are, taking potato chips out of the bowl like you’re some kind of King. King William G. Walsh.” I remember him reaching at that moment into the wooden bowl and pulling a misshapen oval of salt out. His look stretched down his long nose and was made longer by his arm.
Before he could get the whole thin cut delicacy to his mouth, she grabbed the bowl and suddenly chips were falling like big brown tears in the dinning room.
We cried as she banged though the kitchen door and she backed the Volkswagen down the drive past the dinning room window to go no-one knew where.