Saving the Savior

The lines on his face cut even deeper than yesterday. Looking at him now, bathed in the soft light of the chandelier hanging over our heads, I notice how his shoulders slump, as if he alone carries the weight of the world.

“You should eat,” I say.

He picks at his dinner. “Too tired to lift the fork.”

I watch him push bits of food around his plate until I can’t stand it anymore. His brow furrows as he watches me set my fork aside, stand, and walk around the vast table to where he is sitting.

“Scoot your chair back a bit.”

“Why?”

I do it for him, although moving his bulk even a foot is a challenge. The expression on his face when I sit on his lap makes me chuckle. I pick up his fork, stab a piece of steak and hold it to his lips. “Be a good boy and open up.”

“Seriously, you’re going to feed me. Like I’m an infant? Have you lost your mind?”

He tries to push me off his lap, but I am not budging. I put my free arm around his heavy shoulders and trace his lips with the chunk of perfectly grilled filet.

“Face it, big guy, you need taking care of.”

“You’re a brat.” He takes the meat, chewing slowly while glaring at me. Slowly, methodically, I feed him until his plate is empty.

“Wine?” I ask, picking up his glass.

“I can do it myself.” He plucks...