She reclined in the tattered La-Z-Boy, thumb planted firmly in mouth, and gazed, zombie-like, at the TV. She tucked her Dora-slippered feet beneath her and twirled her hair with her free hand, stuffed bunny gasping for breath from beneath a dimpled arm.
The screen flickered, the only light in the dark room a lemon-hued glow coming from Spongebob's underwater antics. The picture reflected in her glassy eyes. Occasionally, there was an audible "pop" as the wrinkled nub of a thumb was removed from its home, the hand moving mindlessly toward the bowl of cheddar-pungent Nacho Cheese Doritos by her side. Thirst was quenched with slurping sips of "orange drink" sucked through a twisty straw.
One cartoon led to the next, and the next, show after show, wasting her day away. The faded, Mickey Mouse-emblazoned towels thumbtacked over the windows made telling time impossible. The only indicator was the 30-minute intervals of canned theme music. There she sat, all day long, morning into afternoon, staring at the TV, sucking her thumb, satisfying herself with chemical-soaked foodlike products in hues of orange not found in nature, until the front door burst open.
The glare of real sunlight shot pins into her eyes, like it must do to an all-night casino rat emerging from the tunnel.
"Shut the damn door!"
"Sorry, mama," came the tiny, dejected reply of her daughter.
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