Notes from the Single Life

t w o - coffee shops and chocolate

TWO: coffee shops and chocolate

Chocolate, men, coffee - some things are better rich.  -Author Unknown

I was sitting in a corner coffee shop on 24th and Broadway sipping a pumpkin spiced coffee, eating a croissant, and watching passerby’s head to and from work in the rain, when I heard the news. My father was coming to New York for the wedding. Sasha, his new wife, had texted me, letting me know how “excited she was to see me and the big city.” Up until then, I hadn’t considered that my father would also be at the wedding, along with Sasha, and I was curious to see how my mother would respond.

Before I could even begin to anticipate her reaction, she stormed into the quaint shop, eyes glaring and nostrils flaring. Shaking out her umbrella, she marched over to me, silently plopping down in the seat across from me. “I’m frustrated,” she finally pointed out as if I couldn’t see that already. I closed my eyes and took a small sip of my pumpkin coffee, wordlessly urging her on. “Your father thinks that he can simply show up here and run the place, and he’s bringing that little slut of his along,” she spat. Oh, how I wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. Here she was talking about how he was going to run the place, when, in reality, she was the one that had barged into my life, somehow causing my “enjoying the single life” façade to fizzle.

“So you found out,” I told her, looking in her eyes. They were already brimming with tears, and I knew that I would have to say something to calm her down. “Don’t worry, he’s going to wish he never left once he sees you,” I quickly tell her.

“Oh, darling, that’s not what I care about,” she said, flapping her hand at me. A small smile formed on my face, my lips curving slightly at the end. Of course it was what she cared about. She just didn’t want anyone else to know.

“Well then it shouldn’t be that big of a deal,” I told her, taking a relatively large bite of my croissant.

“But it is a big deal, Desta,” my mother whined, nervously crossing and uncrossing her hands in front of her.

“Why?”

“Because I’m single,” she practically whispered. I sighed. Here it was again, the whole single business.

“There is nothing wrong with being single,” I retorted. Sure, I was trying to cheer her up, but I was also backhandedly defending myself.

“Well your father doesn’t know that.”

“And neither do you,” I muttered to myself. With a final humph, my mother stood up.

“I’m going to meet up with Brooke and Grace to help pick out flowers for the wedding. You’re welcome to come along, dear,” she told me, gathering her purse and umbrella. I nodded but made no move to rise. “Well, then, I guess I’ll see you later,” she said before turning on her heel and marching out of the coffee shop in the exact same fashion in which she arrived.

My father left my mother when I was twenty-two, and it was possibly the happiest day of my life. I don’t hate my parents. I never have and I never will. I simply hated their relationship. It was basically one big rollercoaster of lust, fighting, drinking, and money.

They met when they were in high school. My mom was a cheerleader and a full-time slut, and my dad was a stoner. They “fell in love” and had me. My dad says that he stuck around as long as he did because of me, and only because of me. I mean, when I was in high school, my dad slept on the couch every night. There were money issues—and lots of it. They were both cheating on each other, and, once my dad quit doing drugs (according to him “drugs were the main reason for his declining health”), he began drinking. I tried to tell him that this was also not good for his health, but he didn’t care much at that point.