My mom and I were sitting on the couch watching Judge Judy and someone from work called. Joe, one of our cooks, is dead.

I didn't even flinch.

I didn't frown, or cry, or make a movement other than surprise and inquiry.

He's dead.

Completely, and utterly dead. As in, I'll never see him again, or get to call him Joe-Joe whenever I happen to pop into the Widow for food or visiting.

Last Friday, or maybe Saturday, I can't remember, I happened to be in town, and Jen asked me to fill in for her. I needed the money and didn't have anything to do anyway. So, I did. As the evening wore on, I ordered a side of fries to munch on. Joe knew it was my order. He didn't even need to ask what kind of gravy I wanted on them. He just knew.

I've known this guy since I was very young. There isn't a time in memory that I don't remember him working at the restaurant. He's in our family pictures--stores and stores of work parties and the many plethora of barbeques we have held over the years. And he's in them, smiling, often holding a beer or other beverage.

And I felt nothing.

something is completely, and totally wrong with me.

I mean, this can't be a normal reaction to death. It can't possibly be a normal reaction.. He wasn't family, but he, along with the other members of work that I've known since I was three, feel like family. I consider them as such.

And I feel like there should be something more.