What is the use of a book, without pictures or conversations?-Alice

MY SHORT-SHORT STORY

It was always the same with you. You, the vague but not so distant memory; with the blurred face, broad shoulders, hard hands and big running feet. You’d drive in your black sedan, while I took the forty-two to the same spot where we’d met every Friday for the past two years. The corner of Prichard and something, outside the quaint ,little Italian café where everyone knew you by your name and I was Little Miss Friday.




It was always the same with you. The same 1987 Merlot, the glimmer of your cufflinks against the dim light, the same risotto with basil instead of thyme. You’d pretend not to notice the stares,as the other tables whispered ,the other men lusted while their wives pulled their daughters closer to them.



The same questions as well. “how was school? Aren’t you cold in that ?” the same response. “school is fine”, and then the pouty “I thought you’d like this” . I never added, “it belonged to my mother” , you never betrayed in your face that you knew ,or maybe you did.



But that was our style, we missed a lot of things ,you and I . First steps , birthdays ,Fathers day and such . We’d walk out , hard hands and broad shoulders shielding me from the wind,then into the car that smelt like you , or maybe like the woman with the fiery red hair and nails that always matched her outfit .Your wife .You never opened the door for me, something I later learnt that fathers don’t generally do.



Always , always the same with you, but I’d ran out of clothes to wear that would remind you of when you and my mother were still in love . so I was late , I missed the fourty-two and you weren’t outside , at the corner of Prichard and something waiting for me. I walked inside to the same table and the same corner…carefully avoiding the same , furtive glances , wishing I’d worn something a little longer.





You were already seated , unsure of whether to stand up and great me . You chose not too. I sat , preparing ,in my head , an explaination. “ Champagne ?”you ask. New question. “ No, thank you . I don’t indulge” Same answer. “Are you celebrating ?” New question . “my wife and I are having a baby daughter.” New answer. Same little restaurant , same broad shoulders shielding me from the same cold , same car smell , but new, new man.





When she was born she had my name,your mothers name, and your eyes, and your smile. Although not certain I’d seen your smile before , I knew the woman with the red hair didn’t have one. They had called , fifteen minutes into supper.The woman with red hair had wet her brand new suede heels and had been rushed to hospital two weeks before the expected date.



Fate has no concern for timing , made no provisions for interrupting my weekly sessions with my father , so I had to go with to the hospital. A pink , fleshy thing ,being held in his arms as I possibly once was . Against his broad shoulders , cradled by his strong hands. “I’m a father!” you turn to me with excitement , and all the time I was thinking that you already were.



Seven days in a week. 24 hours in a day . 172 hours in a week . One hour , fourty five minutes belonging to me and him . 170 hours , and 15 minutes a week , belonging to her. The girl with my name and his smile.



You forgot about me that night, the screaming bundle in your hands and me, in the waiting room . well , you didn’t forgoet , you say you just got a little caught up , you’d become a father , well , you already were a father but… I knew what you meant , right?