Dweezle

"I haven't read a book in 20 years" he said, proudly, with a touch of arrogance. This was a claim Dweezle had made several times before in a variety of different ways. "I don't read," "If I ever wanted to read a book I'd wait for the movie..." That sort of thing. Harriet, a recent college student didn't know what to say. She had just graduated with a double-major in classical literature and philosophy. It seemed like an insult, but she couldn't be sure. He couldn't really think there was no merit in reading, could he? "Really, I'll watch any movie," he said, "any movie." And he had watched many movies - any one you could name. He could tell you the director, screenwriter, and spout an oratory of quotes from it too. Perhaps he was weeding out the fluff that didn't have the brilliance to the gain support of a movie producer. Perhaps he wore his voluntary illiteracy as a badge of honor like a high-school dropout turned billionaire. Only Dweezle wasn't a billionaire. Of course, none of this mattered now, but it was a welcome distraction.

Harriet was compelled to speak up. "Isn't it possible there are stories best communicated in writing?"
"Nope," he quipped. Anything written can be shown equally well if not better in a motion picture."
"How can you say that, Dweezle?"
"Because it appeals to three senses instead of only one, the auditory, visual, and intellectual."
"But what about the intricate thoughts of the characters? How they perceive the world?"
"A good director and good actors can bring the author's intentions to life. It's an improvement over writing in every way."
"But how do you know? You haven't read a book in 20 years!?"
"Um, Dweezle?" Both our heads turned.

"The doctor will see you now" she called from across the waiting room. Harriet helped him to his feet and they slowly walked towards the nurse. It was his final post-op appointment from colon surgery, and she felt for him. The doctors were all optimistic, but she could tell the whole ordeal was wearing on him. But she knew it didn't matter. Now was not the time to even hint at the very important thing she was obligated to tell him. The terminal consequences of his pride. Irony seeped from the new hairstyle of the receptionist as they walked by. It consumed every ounce of her being as we walked towards the office.
After the appointment they walked through the waiting room door and into the lobby.

"Harriet." he said softly.
"Yes, Dweezle."
"I want you to hold my hand as the tanks consume us."
"Yes Dweezle. I will never let go. Not until my strength is gone"

He raised his hand to her chin and they shared a moment with his sad eyes. "I need to use the bathroom; I will be a couple minutes" he said. What struck her next was a shameful and absurd contradiction for a woman who would be dead within the hour. Yes, the nefarious triviality of our thoughts are infinitely stubborn. As he walked through the door it escaped my lips. "Good God, two uses of a semicolon in the same moment."