A family portrait of four. And every morning Eduardo gazes at the massive oil painting, transfixed.
How wealthy are they?
What’s being rich like?
Why do they look unhappy?
But today was different… dark.
The girl should go first, he felt. Quick, painless. She doesn’t deserve suffering. Same with the boy. Older, sure, but still a product of his environment.
Next, the father. Absent, alcoholic. Would probably welcome it.
Finally, the wife. With her he would be slow, deliberate.
Somewhere a horn blares. Eduardo snaps back to reality, puts on his tattered work gloves. Acres of trees still need trimming.
The Weekday One Hundred 