Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

6

6

I pull up outside a small single-story box house when Anastasia says, "That's me."

It had been a terribly embarrassing and silent car ride after the little complication we faced getting into the car.

We had stood as I awkwardly thought of my next move.

"You, um, kind of have to put me into the passenger's seat," she said without looking up to meet my eyes.

I quickly tried to pick her up. The fact that she was wearing a dress didn't really help. I felt her arms go tense around me as soon as my hands came into contact with the bare skin on her thigh as her skirt rode up.

Does she have any sensation below her waist? I wondered as I bit into the side of my mouth.

Much to both of our delight, the exit from my car does not prove to be as disastrous.

"Thanks for the ride, Brooklyn," she says as I set her down.

Her dad opens the door and waves at me. I wave back.

"Yeah, don't mention it." I turn back one last time. "Visit again, okay?"

She nods back, her endearing smile compelling me to return a weak one.

"Brooklyn." My mother peers into my room through the little crack of the door. "Dinner's on the table."

Dad sits at the head of the table with his hand under his chin, tapping his foot.

"How are you doing, son?" he asks.

Nothing about that question sits right with me.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," I reply coldly.

Margareta, our helping hand, drifts in between us and fixes a plate before me.

Almost at the end, he takes a sip of his whiskey and finally breaks the hush.

"I heard you went out with a friend today."

Here we go. I put my cutlery aside. "Yes."

"It was a girl, I believe."

"Yes."

"Who is she?"

"Anastasia. She's new to our school."

"And she's a paralytic?"

"Yes."

"Interesting." He puts his glass down.

I frown. "How come?"

He shrugs. "I just never knew you were into that kind of...companionship."

I look across the table to Mom. She stares blankly back at me.

I rise from the table.

"Thank you. I'm done."

I stomp up the flight of stairs leading to my room and slam the door.

The red circle in the target Mom had pasted behind the door when I was seven so I could play darts, that lay neglected for quite some time, riles me up.

I smash my fist into it until the heat subsides and pain fills its void.

Of course, he knows. He always knows everything.

I grab my jacket, lying close to my feet, and slide into my regular pair of jeans, checking for my wallet in the back pocket.

I trace a heap. Good.

My phone buzzes on the table where I left it charging, emanating a dull fluorescent light into the dark room.

I pick it up. A new text message.