By Charles M. Sumid Copyright 2025 Written 2020
Third joke dying.
She feels it in the air—that thick silence where laughter should live.
Reset.
“So my therapist says I have trust issues.”
She waits.
Counts their discomfort.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi…
“But I don’t trust her either.”
The laugh comes from the back first.
Just one guy who gets it. Then his date. Then the table next to them.
Contagion.
She watches them loosen.
The couple who came to fight, forgetting their anger.
The first-daters grateful for something to share.
“My ex said I was too negative.”
The pause here—shorter. They’re with her now.
“I said no I’m not.”
Bigger laugh. Not because it’s funnier.
Because they trust the silence now.
The heckler in front thinks he sees an opening.
“Wait, but—”
She holds up one finger. Waits.
The room turns on him.
His moment stolen by her better timing.
“See? Trust issues.”
The callback kills.
Even the heckler laughs, defeated by the architecture of pause.
After—green room mirror.
Tomorrow, different crowd, different energy.
The jokes stay the same. The intervals change.
Her notebook—setups on the left, punchlines on the right.
Between them, blank space.
Where she lives.
Gallery of Charles 