I'm in the kitchen, boiling water, when I notice my son has abandoned the NFL game again, throwing a football around the backyard, undoubtedly re-enacting the day's plays.
I don't mind that he's peeled himself away from the couch; I wish he'd kindly take pity on my electric bill and turn the TV off when he grows restless. Besides: Ethan Hawke is reading Slaughterhouse-Five to me, while I pull raviolis from the fridge, saute scallops.
Ethan doesn't like competing with the fine men of ESPN, well-dressed in their tailored suits, suits designed for men with wide shoulders and early arthritis.
I turn off the TV as my boy bounds through the door, puzzled and sweaty.
'Why'd you turn off my show/game/Football prophet?'
I shake my head and go back to making dinner. My story of war and Dresden awaits; Uma's ex bides his time patiently.
I hit play.