In Saving the Imperfect

2. We broke it nonetheless

Layne waved back at the man mowing his lawn behind the short white fence. The neighbourhood he's grown up in hasn't changed much – still crammed up with cute little houses, painted in a whole range of pastel colours. Even the flower gardens in front of them seemed as if they have been exactly the same for years.

He had some doubts, and still, he rang the bell. It only took a minute before the door parted open, revealing his father's wrinkled face, framed by buzz-cut, greying hair.

"Hi, Father," Layne greeted and pushed past him inside.

"Just as always, Layne."

"The bus was overflowing the whole way here." Layne didn't look back at him when he made his way to the kitchen – he could only hear the man walking behind him. "Do you have any food? I'm starving."

Doyle Marks sat behind the kitchen table on a woven chair and watched his son in silence. Layne shrugged it off and opened the fridge.

"Is Mother at work?"

"Yes."

"You don't need to be so formal with me, you know?" He sat a piece of ham on the countertop and reached out for the knives rack. "I might not be the successful child you can brag about to your drinking buddies, but you can't deny my existence."

"How long is this gonna last, Layne?"

"What do you mean?"

"You, losing every job you get? Your family won't be able to cover for you forever," Doyle's voice rose. "You know that the RCI doesn't need much of a reason."

Layne turned at his father in a sudden movement. "Says the guy with an illegal beer brewery in his basement."

"Oh don't start this discussion."

"Just saying that maybe, before getting so set on me being rejected from Eumain, you should think about yourself." The younger man sat in front of his father and chewed on a sandwich. "I'd like to see which of us will go down first. At least I'm not doing anything illegal."

"You know very well it doesn't have to be illegal."

"Yeah yeah, you just have to be 'not good enough'. Hey, if I held up this long with all my imperfections, maybe I'll keep getting lucky like that."

"That's not something to joke about."

"I'm sure of that."

Doyle pressed his hand against his forehead and turned away. After finishing his meal, Layne carelessly traced the table's wooden surface with his finger.

An antique analogue clock – the one Layne himself gave his parents as their anniversary gift many years ago – ticked second after second. The man now understood why nobody made those clocks anymore. The sound could have made anyone go crazy in moments like those.

"You should cut your hair," Doyle spoke after a long silence. "Makes you look inappropriate."

Layne let his hand slide down along his ponytail. The hair only reached just below his shoulders now – quite shorter than how he used to keep it a couple years back. If he'd let it down, the strands of hair would hide the four long, clean scars along the side of his neck. At least partly.

"I like it this way." He shrugged.

"See, you're making yourself stand out even more. You don't know what the bystanders will think about that when they see you. Might take it the wrong way. Might..."

"Might think that I'm not up to their perfect image of masculinity enough and turn me in? That hasn't happened yet."

"Layne, you're twenty-five. Don't you think it's time to grow up?"