I need more practise.
Sunday dinners at Grandfather’s house could get awkward. It wasn’t just that it was cramped, although it definitely was. The walls were yellow with age, as if someone had built the place out of old books, and the furniture was all elephantine antiques. There was no room to stand.
There wasn’t a single end table in that house that hadn’t earned the eternal enmity of my knees. In recent years, those pointy corners’ targets had gotten lower, but my legs still got bruised, so I went on hating them. But I loved the couch. When I sat in it, I could all but disappear.
It helped with the other part of the awkwardness. Dad had always been a very “out of sight, out of mind,” guy, especially around his own dad. Possibly because Grandfather tended to suck attention towards himself.
Not on purpose. Grandfather was a lot like a granite statue–dignified, larger than life, and seemingly fixed in a single, ambivalent expression.