It was the most important day of his life and he had to wake up with a frog in his throat. He got out of bed, avoiding his sleeping wife, and traveled down to the kitchen. He guzzled the frog down first with water then hot coffee thicker than concrete. When he couldn’t say goodbye to his wife, she threw a fit and kicked him out the door. He lugged his suitcase towards the car and spotted the neighbor’s dog tearing up the linoleums, but when he opened his mouth to shout at it, it came out hardly a whistle.
Twenty-three minutes later he slipped into the conference room and took a seat. A shaft of light poured from the windows onto the dark polished surface of the table. He was brimming with excitement. He’d finally organized the budget and was prepared for his report. When the chief executive called on him, he jumped from his seat and eagerly went up to the front.
“Our budget crisis is solved at last!” he wanted to open up with, but instead he croaked.
The men in suits, filled with a staunchly air of professionalism, looked around and murmured impatiently. He sipped his water, cleared his throat and tried again. But he couldn’t speak at all. He was standing in a nightmare.
Someone leaned in close and whispered, “Why don’t you let someone else handle this?”
He surrendered his papers and fled the room flushing. He spent his break lingering by water cooler.
Morning and afternoon passed, and that night he went to dinner, a date he’d planned three months ahead of time, an occasion he’d spent every morning rehearsing in front of the mirror. Martha was a grad student and interning with a marine biologist. If he was going to prove himself, this date had to be flawless. Without his voice, he sent his wife a text: “traffic jam, b home late.” Then he sauntered over to his reserved table and sat before his blonde dream, and Martha immediately burst into chatter.
Fifteen minutes into dinner he thought he was listening quite well; he fixed his eyes on her running mouth instead of letting them lingering down her collar, and even after her seventh digression about sea turtles he kept himself looking enthralled. She bought it and continued rambling. But when she explained the danger the baby sea turtles faced upon hatching, his breath ran suddenly into a wall of phlegm. He resisted the urge to cough – he couldn’t afford to interrupt her now, at the heat of her ramble, so he reserved himself to shallow breaths and frequented to the wine glass. Minutes passed and her words spilled, clear and unhindered, while the phlegm clotted inside his gullet.
At last he couldn’t endure anymore, so he cleared his throat as modestly as he could. As he had feared, she shot an irritated glare. She didn’t enjoy being interrupted. There followed an awkward silence, and then she continued right where she’d left off. Unfortunately, that frog stayed lodged in his throat.
This went on for the next hour. He let her talk, but that only made each interruption that much more painful as he turned aside to cough and spit. He played odd games to divert his attention, from counting the times she batted her lashes to figuring out the true color of her fingernails. Nothing helped: he sat struggling to breath behind a pleasantly engaging smile. This frog had ruined his career and his marriage, but he wouldn’t let it ruin tonight.
She mentioned the Pacific current and then, without warning, he lurched into a raking cough. He snatched the napkin and wiped his mouth, tried to apologize, but then coughed again, and then he heaved. He needed to flee to the bathroom. He stood up and knocked his chair behind me and it clattered to the floor. Martha’s hand touched her lips in shock. Now he couldn’t even walk, helplessly hacking, wheezing, and croaking until a rubbery wet body pushed up into his mouth and propelled itself from his lips. He heard her scream and there was commotion as he looked back up on the table.
A massive frog sat on his plate. Its fat, slimy belly bulged as if it were too large to move at all. He gaped in horror until the frog’s head turned and its eyes met his. Its eyes glowered at him, pale and unblinking, and its lips frowned upon him with an elderly disapproval. Its neck swelled up and belched. Man and frog stared.
He realized that he would never be the same again.
Twenty-three minutes later he slipped into the conference room and took a seat. A shaft of light poured from the windows onto the dark polished surface of the table. He was brimming with excitement. He’d finally organized the budget and was prepared for his report. When the chief executive called on him, he jumped from his seat and eagerly went up to the front.
“Our budget crisis is solved at last!” he wanted to open up with, but instead he croaked.
The men in suits, filled with a staunchly air of professionalism, looked around and murmured impatiently. He sipped his water, cleared his throat and tried again. But he couldn’t speak at all. He was standing in a nightmare.
Someone leaned in close and whispered, “Why don’t you let someone else handle this?”
He surrendered his papers and fled the room flushing. He spent his break lingering by water cooler.
Morning and afternoon passed, and that night he went to dinner, a date he’d planned three months ahead of time, an occasion he’d spent every morning rehearsing in front of the mirror. Martha was a grad student and interning with a marine biologist. If he was going to prove himself, this date had to be flawless. Without his voice, he sent his wife a text: “traffic jam, b home late.” Then he sauntered over to his reserved table and sat before his blonde dream, and Martha immediately burst into chatter.
Fifteen minutes into dinner he thought he was listening quite well; he fixed his eyes on her running mouth instead of letting them lingering down her collar, and even after her seventh digression about sea turtles he kept himself looking enthralled. She bought it and continued rambling. But when she explained the danger the baby sea turtles faced upon hatching, his breath ran suddenly into a wall of phlegm. He resisted the urge to cough – he couldn’t afford to interrupt her now, at the heat of her ramble, so he reserved himself to shallow breaths and frequented to the wine glass. Minutes passed and her words spilled, clear and unhindered, while the phlegm clotted inside his gullet.
At last he couldn’t endure anymore, so he cleared his throat as modestly as he could. As he had feared, she shot an irritated glare. She didn’t enjoy being interrupted. There followed an awkward silence, and then she continued right where she’d left off. Unfortunately, that frog stayed lodged in his throat.
This went on for the next hour. He let her talk, but that only made each interruption that much more painful as he turned aside to cough and spit. He played odd games to divert his attention, from counting the times she batted her lashes to figuring out the true color of her fingernails. Nothing helped: he sat struggling to breath behind a pleasantly engaging smile. This frog had ruined his career and his marriage, but he wouldn’t let it ruin tonight.
She mentioned the Pacific current and then, without warning, he lurched into a raking cough. He snatched the napkin and wiped his mouth, tried to apologize, but then coughed again, and then he heaved. He needed to flee to the bathroom. He stood up and knocked his chair behind me and it clattered to the floor. Martha’s hand touched her lips in shock. Now he couldn’t even walk, helplessly hacking, wheezing, and croaking until a rubbery wet body pushed up into his mouth and propelled itself from his lips. He heard her scream and there was commotion as he looked back up on the table.
A massive frog sat on his plate. Its fat, slimy belly bulged as if it were too large to move at all. He gaped in horror until the frog’s head turned and its eyes met his. Its eyes glowered at him, pale and unblinking, and its lips frowned upon him with an elderly disapproval. Its neck swelled up and belched. Man and frog stared.
He realized that he would never be the same again.
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