Bloom

29. shy food

Zephaniah

"Thank you so much," Dad smiled at the waiter, who had just handed us the menu. I had quietly mumbled out a thanks, failed to look into the waiter's eyes.

Opening the menu, my eyes searched for the fourth number, knowing my favourite pizza was on there. It wasn't that I remembered it because we came here so much, those were just details that engraved theirselves into my mind at times. I didn't really know why, though.

"You're going for Margherita without the tomatoes, I suppose?" Dad asked, his eyes roaming over the menu as he, most likely, was deciding which pizza to eat as well.

I hummed in response and took the cold glass of Coke into my hands, taking a few sips. "And you, baba?"

"Tough, tough.. but I think I'll go for Margherita for once as well. Do you want bread beforehand?" He asked, making me frown a little.

Shaking my head, I stared at him, looking into his eyes. "No, I want pizza." I said quietly, not wanting to come off rude.

"I know," Dad smiled, our eyes meeting. "But while they're making it, you can have bread first. Do you want it? Your stomach seems to be never full."

I blushed at that, he was speaking the truth after all. Though, I declined, feeling weird about it for some reasons. "No, thanks, baba."

"Okay, Zeph." He answered softly, continuing to flip through the menu for reasons I didn't know. He had decided after all.

Wiggling my feet underneath the table, I stared outside the window, feeling warm for several reasons. It'd been ten years since I had transferred from Special Education to the regular one. Dad had always told me he thought it was something to celebrate, so he took me out for pizza each year. Usually with mum, but she wasn't feeling well because of the baby.

It made me feel extremely shy, sheepish almost because I never really knew how to handle compliments, so when he wanted to celebrate something I had, somehow, achieved, I couldn't help but feel that way as well, as I didn't really know how to act.

Grateful would be an understatement, of course. Dad had always made me feel so loved, had always made me feel as I deserved to be on this earth, and because of the things he did for me- he'd always made me feel proud of myself.

Suddenly, the waiter stood at our table, and my feet stopped wiggling right after, the dryness appearing at the corners of my mouth, though, clamminess in my hands. I had to ask, I had to ask.

"Have you both decided what to order?" He asked politely, eyeing dad and I, only I didn't look back at him, rather at my hands.

"Yeah, I'd like number four, the Margherita. And Zeph, you?" He asked purposefully, stimulating me to talk and order myself. He knew how difficult I found it, but I also knew he didn't stimulate me to do it to make a fool out of myself.

He only wanted to help me, but sometimes I just wished he'd still order for me. "Uhm, the margherita? Uhm, can I, maybe, uhm, have it without.. tomatoes?" I stammered out, my face probably on fire. I didn't look at him, I couldn't look at him.

"Yeah, totally. Will be here soon!" After that, he asked for the bread, but dad declined, making me feel even worse.

"Baba," I gulped, looking up at him. "Sorry, you can have it still? The bread, I mean."

He looked at me, his face stood soft. "I know, Zephaniah. I didn't want it." He gave me a smile, touching my hand for a split second. "You did well with ordering, I'm proud of you. I know how hard you find it."

"I stammered," I said sadly, looking up at him.

"And that's totally okay. It's a process, Zeph. Practicing is only a good thing. The stammering will get less, the more you practice. And besides, there's absolutely nothing wrong with stammering." He explained, making me feel as if it really wasn't a bad thing to stammer.