The Talk Show Host

they wait there in the long fluorescent hum of the evening, motorised chairs whining low and plastic seats creaking under the weight of old bones.

some have stalks of shiny steel rising like chrome antennas above balding heads and thinning silver hair, clear bags of saline, dripping slow, intravenous pricks taped to blue-veined arms. they sit in their sombre rows — three deep, five across — the care-home attendants drifting quiet between them like pale ghosts.

they wait for the talk show host.

his suit catches the television light in cheap sparkles, makeup caked thick, blush layered on in rosy swathes. the studio audience gone silent, a held-breath moment, and the contestants lean in.

will Mrs Grey win the gleaming kitchen from Modus, or scoop the grand prize, that sunlit trip to Florida with a pocket of spending money?

sweaty fingers hovering over buzzers, tension building thick in the canned air, and then the sign flashes: applaud now, on the air.

sudden death this week, poor Mr Thomson, gone just before his grandchildren could make it through the door to say hello, the talk show host still chattering bright on the screen, his favourite Saturday night ritual, the one bright square in the dim room.

funeral next week, limited social housing, another empty chair by Saturday.

canned applause. and in
the blue light, a man slips off—
applaud now, on air.