It started with Pac-man.
I love my husband, but he’s not the sharpest tool in the box.
“If we build it they will come,” Raphael once said, with a straight face, “trust me, my angel.”
Yes, my name is Angel, but I’ve always hated it when he does that. “Who will come?” I snapped.
“The tourists. We’ll be like the new Disney,” he replied; with a naïve glean of aspiration in his eye and unwarranted hope in his voice.
“I don’t think anyone is going to come for a cheesy Pac-Man carving at the edge of a stagnant swap,” I said, trying to remain serious and topping it up with the look of disapproval.
Worried, I hid his axe, but he would always find it.
One day, after a visit to the city, I returned early to find him stood at the edge of the swamp, axe in one hand, nervous I’ve-been-caught-red-handed wave with the other. He smiled his best innocent-boy look at me.
“You fool!” I screamed at him, pointing at the Pac-man carving, “Don’t you know these lands are sacred? What have you done!”
He didn’t respond. He stood there gawping at the forest, where the new-born hungry ghosts were waiting.