Mr. Spite — The Long Game of Getting Even

Lyrics

He stirs his coffee with a tarnished silver spoon.
Not from this set.
Not from this cafe.
From a place in 1998 that served him cold soup.
He remembers the waiter's name.

The window at "The Daily Grind" is his ledger.
His observatory.
Across the street, Eleanor Vance is weeding her garden.
Her prize roses. He hopes for aphids.
He remembers October 27th, 2003.
The sheet cake with the waxy frosting.
Her name announced for the regional manager position.
He remembers the smell of lemon Pledge and cheap congratulations.
He shook her hand. Smiled.
And planted a seed in the dark part of his mind.

This is the long game. The patient account.
A grudge is a garden you tend in the dark.
It asks for nothing. A little water of recall.
He is a banker of slights, a keeper of receipts.
And he waits.
He has the patience to outlive a good day.
He has the time to watch a good year spoil.

Last July, when she flew to Santorini,
He checked the ten-day forecast.
Willed a heatwave. Smiled at the mention of scattered thunderstorms.
Two years ago, he overwatered his own petunias
just to watch them brown and die
before she could walk past and say "how lovely."
A small joy, denied.
A perfect, private victory.

This is the long game. The patient account.
A grudge is a garden you tend in the dark.
It asks for nothing. A little water of recall.
He is a banker of slights, a keeper of receipts.
And he waits.
He has the patience to outlive a good day.
He has the time to watch a good year spoil.

They call it letting go.
Like it's a balloon.
But it's not a balloon.
It's an anchor.
It's the only thing that proves he was there,
that the cold soup mattered,
that the promotion was his.
This tarnished spoon in his hand,
it's heavy. It keeps him grounded.

Through the window, it begins to rain.
Eleanor Vance gathers her tools, hurries inside.
Her hair is getting wet.
A small frown.
Mr. Spite takes a slow sip of his cooling coffee.
A dividend, paid in full.
He doesn't smile.
Not on the outside.