Hours

26- Thursday, May 17th

9:43 PM

"My Mom and my Dad are very... different," I start slowly, trying to formulate sentences as I go. This isn't something I've ever planned out; I never thought I was going to tell anyone. "My Dad works at the hospital. He's a nurse, and he works his butt off. I'm their only kid, and he's worked like mad to get us everything we have. He works really, really hard, and part of me wonders if that is because of Mom... Another part of me resents him for spending so much time at work when he could've been spending it with me. I'm... I'm proud of him, though.

"My Mom, on the other hand... she works for this apparently 'up and coming' fashion industry. It's been 'up and coming' for years, according to her. She's always off on these 'business trips', off to go make a new face for the business or pick up a new model or something. That's what she claims, anyway. Every month she's away, often more than once. And a lot of the time she just... goes. Leaves with just a text or a note, not even a goodbye. I've gotten used to it.

"Then one day," I sigh, my eyes closed, picturing the day perfectly. "One day in grade nine I had to come home sick. I called my Dad for him to sign me out, since one of my mother's rules was, 'never call while I'm at work'. He offered to drive me home, but I didn't want to bother him and just took the city bus. My Moms car was in the driveway when I got home. I opened the door and went inside, dropping off my bag. And I heard them. They were in the living room, and my Mom was laughing, giggling. She never giggled with my Dad. With him, it was either a forced laugh or smile, or it was nothing.

"I called out, heading to the living room. As I went in, there was this... this guy, just sitting down on one of our chairs. He was wearing a suit but the jacket was undone, his hair was messy, and his face was red, really really red. My Mom was worse. I could tell her skirt was pulled up and that the buttons on her blouse were done up incorrectly. Her hair was a mess, and I could see one of her bra straps. She introduced the guy like it was no big deal and asked me what I was doing home so early. I told her I had come home sick, that Dad had signed me out. The guy turned white, and Mom quickly brought me upstairs. As she tucked me in, fawning over me, I noticed she wasn't wearing her wedding ring."

I open my eyes, trying to quell my anger. "Every 'business trip' she's gone on since then, she hasn't brought it. I check every time. Every single time, and every time she doesn't bring it. And it's not like my Dad doesn't know. I know he knows, I've heard them arguing about it. 'Just give me another chance,' my Mom always pleads. And he always does. I hate them for it. He could leave her, and we could move and... and-" I break off and clear my throat. I feel Micheal turn to look at me, but don't meet his eyes. I can't meet his eyes.

"He just won't leave her," I whisper, closing my eyes and resting my forehead on my knees.

Micheal shifts closer to me, and I feel him drape his hand over my shoulder as another comes around from the front for an awkward side hug.

"I'm sorry," Micheal says quietly, arms still around me. "My Dad may be an asshole, but he loved my Mom more than anything. Her death crushed him, and I don't know if it's something he'll ever recover from." He pauses, thinking, "I know that's not what you want to hear right now, you don't want to hear about my parent's marriage when you're talking about yours, but-"

I cut him off, saving him the trouble of finishing a sentence that he clearly doesn't know how to finish. "Tell me about your mom," I say quietly, pulling out from his arms. I lean my back against his bed, stretching my legs out in front of me. Micheal mimics my position, sighing as he looks around his room.

"She was... amazing," He smiles softly, and I can see him staring at the piano, "When we were driving, she would turn the radio all the way up and sing at the top of her lungs. If I told her to stop, she'd only sing louder and louder until I joined in. And she didn't just listen to whatever was on the radio; she had a taste. She loved music from when she was growing up, but she loved other music too. She loved what others would call 'alternative'. It wasn't alternative to her. It was the greatest music to her. She introduced me to the bands I love now.

"She told me that when I turned thirteen she would take me to any concert I wanted. She'd pay for the tickets; it'd be my birthday present. She said that we'd go out for a fancy dinner, that I could order whatever I wanted, I could have a dessert and a milkshake and-" He cuts off, breathing shallowly. "When she died, all I had was her music. The memories, the music... It's my escape."

I do something I'd never thought I'd do. At that moment, I stood up, pulling Micheal with me. Sitting on his bed, grabbing his hand again, I say, "I'd like to hear more of that music. More of... Who were they, AJR?"

Micheal smiles at me, grabbing his phone from his pocket and pulling out the white earbuds. He plugs them in, saying quietly, "I can put on their album...?"

I grab one of the earbuds, grinning. "I'd like that," I say, lying back on my back. My head is on his pillow, and I close my eyes. I feel Micheal lie down next to me, feel him adjust his phone before the music starts playing.

My eyes are closed and I listen to the music, really listen, trying to understand it and the boy lying beside me. Trying to understand how Micheal can laugh so freely when he's been so hurt. How this upbeat and joyous band can reflect his pain. How the lead singers smooth and confident voice can compare to Micheals hesitancy and quietness.

Should I go for more clicks this year

Or should I follow the clicks in my ear

But I'm weak

Should I go for more clicks this year

And what's wrong with that

Or should I follow the click in my ear

But I'm weak