Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Thirty-Five: Eagle-Eyed

The next conversation I had with Kate took place in a crummy cafe with the scars of that evening still marring my rough complexion. I did everything to evade her eyes and defy the budding conversation. The dwindling coffee staining the bottom of the mug held more appeal than a conversation with Kate.

My eyes skittered about, jumping from the dusty boot prints on the floor, to the garbage littering other table tops then back to the mug.

"You know you can't avert this conversation forever, right?" She mumbled, slurping her iced tea.

There was no recourse or discourse on my part, I simply shrunk down further in my seat.

"Watch me try," I uttered back with intransigence.

I stared about at the interior, trying to find anything to focus on but Kate. The tinkling of teaspoons on the rims of china cups rung out, and the chugging and spluttering of the clogged coffee machine. The quiet amalgamation of voices was a pleasant hum, and if I attuned my ears carefully I could pick up on snippets of conversation to distract me.

Kate tutted then slurped obtrusively at her drink, it did more to agitate me than break the silence. "So you'd rather stay stubborn and silent and suffering?"

My eyes flicked from the coffee cup and my temper flared. "I'm not suffering." I glared over the brim of the mug and ferried it to my lips, trying to drain the last droplets from the receptacle.

My eyes trailed from table to lopsided table, to the queue at the cashier and the table with sachets of sugar and coffee stirrers.

Kate rolled her eyes. "Clint, your dad-"

"Don't!" I warned, my eyes jumping about the public space about with paranoia, any of the faces in the sea of faces had the potential to be my father, or someone who knew my father. Waverly is a titchy town, I knew the name of every second face; chances were, they knew me too.

"Then you seriously need to think about redefining your definition of 'suffering', Clint!" Kate hissed between us.

I crossed my arms over my chest, my leg bouncing restlessly beneath the table we sat at. "There are people beyond the Iron Curtain oppressed under a Brezhnev, you've seen the news - I am not suffering," I announced boldly, chin raised high.

Because that's the thing; suffering is relative. Suffering is a matter of circumstance and person. A rich man who dents his million dollar car is suffering, but so is the tramp on the dusty street corner who hasn't received a penny from a passerby in days. Suffering is comparable, but comparison never makes anyone happy.

Kate's hand snaked across the coffee table and rested tentatively on my wrist. "Well, lucky us for not living in the USSR! But, Clint... Regardless of anyone else's pain, you're still hurting. And you have the right to be hurting. You have the right to feel hurt. Just because other people have pain in their lives, doesn't make yours any less valid." She squeezed my wrist, vying for my attention, but my eyes wouldn't stray from the dirt muddying the tips of my sneakers.

With tear glossed eyes my gaze panned back to her. "What would you propose I do, Kate?" I threw my hands up in the air. "Because, really, if you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them." I scuffed my shoes on the floor, digging them into the ground with irritations. "Truly. Because I've lived this way all my life and haven't been able to devise an escape."

Kate's lips parted and her bottom lip jutted as she fumbled for a solution. "Come live with me!" She blurted naively. "My mom wouldn't mind! She said she liked you the other day-"

I rolled my eyes. "My ma', Kate. Barney. What about them? I leave, do you know who replaced me as-" I lowered my voice. "My father's punching bag?" I sagged in my seat, huffing.