Making Faces

It was the only time Morty had ever seen focus in Emery’s constantly shifting eyes. He was staring intently, and Morty realized he didn’t know how to make the expression the situation required. The muscles in his face had not contorted that way in too long. Emery was waiting for a response, and wasn’t going to turn the page until he solicited one.

“Looks good, Em.”

“Good? It looks better than good. It’s amazing.”

“Are you taking drugs? Did you steal money from somebody to buy yourself some LSD? Is that what the kids are using now?”

“I’m not on drugs! I’m inspired by beauty. Nothing is wrong with that.”

“Something is wrong with this,” he interjected, tapping Emery’s head. “We didn’t give birth to you so you could participate in this kind of nonsense. No former half step-child of mine is going to turn into a sissy!”

“It’s not art, it’s architecture. It’s manly.” He stared at the page again, overtaken, then looked back at Morty.

“Stop looking at me! I don’t know what to tell you. Looks good.”

“Do you see this spike? It was the first of it’s kind. Can you just imagine what it would be like to be the guy who thought of this spike?”

“No I cannot. I am the guy that lives in a tenement and I have never invented an earth-shattering spike.”

“I think it would be fantastic.”

“Maybe it would be.”

“It definitely would be.”

“I said it would be! What’s the matter with you? I can’t say it would be more than I just said it would be. I can only say what the English language provides me with!”

Emery shut the book with a frown. “Calm down, Morty. It was only a picture.”

“Stop looking at me, kid.”