When Droplets Collide

Ten

I havent seen my mom since that night.

I'm ashamed of how I walked out, but I needed the week to try calm down. In the state I was in, I would've spilled everything to her. I would’ve said anything to get her out of succumbing to his threats—even if it meant incriminating myself.

But I know I can’t do that.

So I haven’t seen my mother in a week, but that didn’t stop me from trying to get in contact with my complete ass of a father. The only problem is that he avoids me every single time I call.

I can’t remember a time where I've ever been so fed up or felt so betrayed.

Maybe this is just me getting a taste of my own medicine—me getting exactly what I deserve. Most people would call this karma. I call it my dad abusing his power over me by extending it to my mother.

I once again find myself glancing down at the vintage watch around my wrist. The sight of it had sickened me until now. In fact, if it weren’t for the object being my only reminder of the constant burden of guilt I have to carry, I would have gotten rid of the thing long ago. If it were meaningless, it would have been easy to do it, but my family's history is etched into every second carved across its face. It's kept the most accurate recollection of our history, and with every minute that ticks by while I'm stuck waiting for him to show up yet again, the watch captures my joint betrayal better than the pages of a novel ever could.

I don’t like the sound of that statement. I don’t like being in a “joint” anything with him. I've had this thought for a while now. Reflecting on it now only strengthens my resolve to give him hell when he gets here.

I break out of my dark thoughts at the sweet chime of a bell. I straighten in my seat to get a better look at the newcomer, only to have the disappointment sink its way into my eagerness at the sight of obsidian hair.

But even though the art student isn't who I came here to see, I cant seem to take my eyes off of her. They follow her as she makes her way across the room. Her a arrival seems to temporarily quieten the storm raging inside me. I welcome the distraction and watch her some more to pass the time.

I observe as she makes a direct beeline for the apron hung professionally behind the front counter. The long, dark strands of her hair fall into her face as she bends down to unceremoniously dump her bag out of sight of any customers before she drapes the apron over her head. Without so much as a glance at any of the tables, she rushes into the door leading to the kitchen.

It's only when she's out of sight that my brain starts working again—that I remember why I came here in the first place.

The aching muscles of my fingers loosen their constricting hold on the mug in front of me. I barely have time to calm my nerves when the overhead bell chimes again.

The man in the immaculate suit marches into the café with an expression of irritation that rivals my own. I straighten in my seat in an attempt to appear taller than I actually feel. My heart pounds in tandem with his approaching steps against the tile. We keep eye contact, each of us refusing to back down, even as he scrapes the chair against the floor and sits across from me.

He doesn’t speak and neither do I as we size each other up. His presence overpowers mine until I'm left feeling like the small boy who was too afraid to enter the study and show him the single B I received on my report.

I wrack my brain for the best way to make him understand that what he's done is not okay, but I needn’t have bothered. Once again, he always has to have the first say.

“If you’re going to sit there and waste my time like a fool instead of giving me any more information, then I'm leaving.”

His condescending tone brings back all the motions I've felt since that night. I somehow find it within myself to say the words I've been dying to say since the first time I saw my mom a few weeks ago.
“I'm not telling you anything about my mother.”