The Remote

"So what are we watching?"


Angela propped her aching feet onto the coffee table as she ate another forkful of reheated fried rice. Damian sat in the recliner adjacent to the 70's sofa, a beer in one hand and remote in the other. His eyes were glued to the 20-inch in the corner. Angela frowned.

"Again? We've been watching it all day."

"That's why they call it a marathon."

"So just because they have a CSI Marathon you need to watch every single episode?"

"'Course. It's in the code."

"Oh, that's right. How could I forget the 'code'" Angela scoffed. "The same code that declares no man shall ever use a face cloth on his own accord." Damian grinned, the bottle raised for another sip.


"Look, manhood as we know it is not going to crumble because you missed one hour of your precious marathon."

"You don't know that. Besides, what would you watch instead? Sex and the City? There's nothing else on." Angela's fork paused midway to her mouth, and was directed instead in Damian's direction, threatening to defy the laws of physics and poke his arm.

"I hate that show, actually, thanks for the gender stereotype. And you don't know what else is on because you haven't once changed the channel."

"I don't want to. I enjoy CSI. It stimulates my mind. Makes me…cerebrate. What do you have against it?"

"Nothing, I like the show as much as you do, I just think we should watch something else for once. And besides, it's a repeat. How much…cerebrating can you do when you know what happens?"

"For your information, Angela dear, not all of us have near perfect memories. Thus, I'm going to cerebrate to my heart's content." He took another swig of his beer, smug in his victory. Angela munched her rice slowly, watching the show intently. They were silent for a few minutes. Angela leaned over to grab his beer.

"That chick's really a dude. She was getting married soon, and wanted to give herself to her husband as a full woman, so she was supposed to get an illegal surgery but discovered that the doctor who was doing these surgeries screwed up and butchered a woman in a storage facility and she had tapes for evidence, but they caught up to her in the end and killed her. Oh, and the doctor who was supposed to help her, she was once a man and her husband was once a woman." She took a quick swig of beer, shoved the bottle back into his frozen hand, and plopped back down onto the couch, her victorious eyes betraying her poker face. Damian stared at her in shock.

"Thanks. Thanks a lot." He glared at his beer as though it had betrayed him before taking another sip. Angela smiled.

"Any time. Now, change the channel." Damian's left hand tightened instinctively over the silver device.

"No. I still have the remote."

"Oh you've got to be kidding me."

"It's a known fact. Whoever has the remote has the power. And I clearly have the remote, and therefore the power. If you wanted the power you should have gotten the remote first."

" You've had the remote in your hand the entire day!" Angela cried in frustration. Damian stared at her. "How could I have gotten the remote when every minute of the day it's been in your possession?" He opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off. "Yes, you even had it with you when you went to the bathroom."

"You could have gotten up and changed the channel manually."

"I did! You changed it back."

"That's because I have the power. It's my remote." Angela raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue.

"Your remote?"

"Yes, MY remote. I'm the man in this house. I bought this remote AND the TV with MY money. Therefore, it's MY remote and MY power, and I say what we watch. End of story." Damian barked. Angela glared at him, fuming inside, but she said nothing. After a moment her anger appeared to subside. Damian, pleased that he won, sat back and took another drink. She sighed.

"You must not appreciate everything I do for you." He groaned.

"Alright, you want to play that way, fine. Let's play. I don't need you to wash my clothes anymore. Before you, I lived off of whichever shirt smelt the least. And I don't need you to cook anymore. Not like you do now anyway. As for dishes, I can—"


Damian went silent, realization sweeping over his face. Her eyes told him she was serious. They were silent as they stared, the tension in the air as thick as warm expired milk. Finally, Damian sighed and took another swig of his beer.

The remote landed with a thud on the couch.

"That's what I thought." They were silent again as Angela enjoyed her victory and Damian muttered under his breath, his manhood shattered. When he felt enough time had passed, Damian swallowed the last of his beer.

"So what are we watching?"