I had been there before. I'm not sure of the name, or look, or setting. I guess that is selfish. It would seem to me, on days like this, that those things would be the only aspects I remembered. Just like on 911; that carpet, the teacher, the classroom; I knew it all, to each particle on the dusty ground. But then I feel selfish again because the thought that his tragedy was equivalent to one of that importance was as naive as it was horrifying.

We sat down in our places. I remember how it was only routine to sit strategically placed; the same way we were at our own dinner table. This night was anything but routine, and that is why it bothered me. I wondered how he felt. If the blood shot through his veins, toward his fingertips, and if they hurt, as he loosely held his fork against them. I wondered how he still had an apetite; or even if he had an apetite, because I do not remember what he ate; how much of it was left behind; how much was a buffer between us and him.
Mostly I wonder if she was thinking this as she sat beside him. If she felt remorse, or anger, or the willingness to deceive. She would never realize this deception was much like his own; how the roots would be so far reaching and not only far, but deep too; deeper than his own.
His nerves jumped out in a temper filled with anfer toward the man serving us. If only he had known what was about to happen. He would have understood; he might not have taken it so personally. His insignificance was a dust particle on our table; a mere crumb escaping off of one of Dad's fries; however, his significance elsewhere could be the fry itself, or maybe even the sandwich. We would send him off, half-eaten, to his family and his anger and contempt would cause his daughter to cry. If only she had known she was a speck on his table.