Poison and Cure

XV - Nug

بسم الله
In the name of God
September 25th, 2004 11:36am
Kingsland, GA, Genesis's Father's House

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"So, Dad." I say, nervously sitting crosslegged in my seat.

My father lounges across from me, sipping black coffee; I've ambushed him at the perfect time, he's drinking his morning coffee and texting someone I won't ask about.

"Yes, Nug?"

My mustard oversized sweatpants and white tee-shirt almost blend into the similar coloured couch.

"If I were to get married, mostly for my job, would you let me?"

Halting his drinking, his dark blue eyes stare into mine.

"To whom? And why would you need to get married?"

"Uh," I fiddle with my fingers, "Like, if my job as an assistant required me to be around that person alone constantly, and not for medical reasons. And he's a practising Muslim guy."

Sighing, he puts down his red mug of coffee and reaches for a cigarette that sits on the nightstand. I can tell he knows where this is going.

"I... I guess I wouldn't mind if he was a good guy. But why do you have to get married?"

"Um... I admire him and stuff."

"Marriage shouldn't be taken lightly, Nug," he says, a small smile on his face, "But you're old enough and you have good judgement, better than me, so if it's something you'd like to do, then I'll support you."

I exhale and my body relaxes so suddenly I almost lean over.

"Speaking of, Genesis, why are you even taking up any job? You're my wealthy daughter; you could live," he waves his hand, almost spilling his coffee, "Lavishly, without working another day in your life. You've said that you'd work only for a week since you were bored, but it's been several months, why?"

"You seem disgusted by my desire to have a paying job," I respond, resting my chin in my palm.

"I just think you're above it," he says, shrugging, "I never thought a daughter of mine would ever do something as average as... cleaning."

"It is also passive research, Dad."

"But it's cleaning. It's so low. And we are better."

I toss a throw pillow at his feet in protest, "Are you serious? There's nothing low or dishonourable about keeping things neat. It's even Islamically encoura-"

I stop myself. My dad wasn't even Muslim, no use trying to bring religion into it.

"Yeah, keep your passive religion to yourself, Nug. I'll keep my controversial thoughts to my own," he mutters, lighting the cigarette before bringing it to his cherry-tinted lips.

Nug has been my nickname for years. First, it was Chicken Nugget, then Nugget, now only Nug. It was both comforting and strange that he still called me the childish nickname when he couldn't even bring himself to parent me properly.

Previously, my dad's heart was extremely firm against everyone, even me. It's worth noting that I'm also the one who eventually softened it, although he wouldn't admit it if you asked.

"As for what you said before," my dad said, running his hands through his wheat-coloured hair, his sharp cheekbones and nose bright red from the heat, "I don't care who you get with, but you have my support."

Sighing, I respond, "Okay, Dad. Thanks."

My father is forty-one and a 6'3 ash-blond with dark blue eyes and a sleepy, charismatic smile. A mixture of young Leo DiCaprio and Johnny Depp, he could get women easily but rarely keep them due to his desire to constantly move from woman to woman.