This is a Bubble

“No more for me,” says my son-in-law, face tan and greasy as roast meat. The bottle is gigantic in my daughters hand. They are laughing.

We sit cocooned above Dubai, suspended by glass and steel. This is not a home. It is a fantasy. The air is cool and artificial. I smile at the silent Filipino woman who brings the food but she turns her face.

“Dad,” says my daughter. “Now that Mum's gone, Alistair and me want you to move here with us.”

They think because I am old I do not see things. They do not know that this life is as light as air. I hear their whisperings and hushed phone calls, the breathy excitement of making money. I know they fuck every time either makes a sale. I know that they have mortgages linked together like a paper chain.

They look at me. They think because I am old I must be preserved or recreated.

I know she fucks other men.

I know that things can disappear in a blink.

Lifting my finger, I ready myself to puncture them.

I know they will not listen when I tell them that this is a bubble.