PICK PICK PICK

It really was annoying, even if you took away the sound of it. Just the way he would sit there in that big brown chair with his one foot hiked up, his glasses glowing in the television light. And he would pick and pick at his big grey toenail. Pick pick pick. My father would be lying on the couch, grunting and rubbing his forehead. It truly was relentless, perhaps the most sickening sound I have ever heard. It went on nearly every evening for months. And then one day my father could no longer take it. He shot up and yelled: "GODDAMN IT, WILL YOU STOP THAT!" My grandfather was stunned. The embarrassment registered in his mouth, something between a smile and a wince. He mumbled something as he stood up, and then he walked away to his room. My father turned to me. "What the hell are we supposed to do, just sit here and listen to that?" I shrugged my shoulders and said, "I know." And then my father laid back down.