the handoff

a hot and cloudless day. the sky, blue, so innocuous, still ... so bright it hurts to look at.

a minivan. a mom-car. some dark color, something incongruous, british racing green perhaps. the sliding side door open. the driver's door open.

a man, thirty-ish. round, pink, unlined and close-shaven face sweating lightly. starched, white, long-sleeved dress shirt buttoned up all the way. dark tie. pleated slacks.

the man steps out from the shadowed entrance of the restaurant, walks across the parking lot. awkwardness betrays the unseen black cloud of anger surrounding him. he reaches into the open driver's side door, and turns, with a baby on one arm and a denim bag on the other. a bag too large to be a woman's purse, too small to be a diaper bag.

holding the baby and the bag slightly away from his body, he recrosses the parking lot to enter the restaurant -- enveloped, buoyed, carried forward by the anger.

in moments he exits the restaurant and crosses the parking lot again, back to the car. as he's slamming the side door closed, i finally recognize it. the smooth, too young, too closely shaven, unlined and angry face is the face that has been botoxed by the hand of god. the face of a man secure in the knowledge that his lord will take responsibility for this too -- this handing-over the [freaking] baby to [that bitch] the ex-wife.