Pain-t-Killers

Battling Breakfast

"Then everything changed when I met him." Or her. Isn't that how every love story starts? Like suddenly you meet that one person who makes everything look shiny and beautiful and perfect, then you have this big fight that almost ruins everything but bang! The bond you created is too strong even for you to break, and you end up back together. Side by side. One soul in two bodies, against the world, against all odds.
I find that oversimplified.
I don't believe life is a series of meaningful choices. In a lifetime you'll face two, maybe three moments with your back against the wall, forced to make a sudden decision that will change your future forever.
Everyday life is easier. And devious. Way more devious. Most of our life-changing events happen when we are not acting at all, actually. Life proceeds behind our backs — literally, at times. Sneakily and slowly. An unavoidable entropic wave. At least that's what I'm telling my mother while she yells at me to stop using words I don't know the meaning of.
Someone once said "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."
Right now, life is my mother barking over my waffles. Geez, I'm half asleep right now. I can't even have breakfast without fighting. If you wanna ruin my day, let it begin at least.
Ruining my life, Theresa's best activity. Girl's a pro, a tryharder, she trained for years. Eighteen at least. And yes, my mother's name is Theresa, but that's the only thing they have in common.
I always addressed her as "mother" since I learnt the word. To me "mom" always sounded so silly, childish, and things between us have always been kinda cold. Last Christmas she had a quite huge argument with my uncle right in the middle of our dinner and I referred to her by her first name.
"Theresa, please, let it be and enjoy your meal."
I calmly said, mocking the solemnity and soberty of a duchess the best I could. That silenced for the whole night but she totally freaked out the day after. Best Christmas ever.
It's not that I don't love her, I mean she is my mother and everything, you know, but we never kinda liked each others.
"You'll never get anywhere wasting your days with your doodles and your silly stories!"
You get what I mean?
"They are fanfictions, not 'silly stories' how many times do I have to remind you, Tess?"
Dad. My hero.
With a wave of his hand he moved her curly hair away, kissing her cheek. It was so pure and warm she almost looked like a human being. I don't realize I'm smiling, while a drop of maple syrup falls from my lips.
"Whatever Hank" — she replied, dropping us back to the real world "I'm trying to convince our daughter not to waste her future."
Argument of the day: which college I should apply to.
"I wanna make art! Why is it so hard to understand? I mean, what if instead of painting The Potato Eaters those guys said 'hey, you there, ginger head, stop portraiting us and help us... Farm those potatoes..?"
Gosh I really need to revise Van Gogh' s life.
Both my parents are looking awkwardly at me while mother is going to raise her finger in response.
"OK time out you ladies!"
Phew, saved by the bell. Thanks dad.
"Honey, you're gonna be late for work. I'll stay here, trying to make our little artist here come to her senses."
They gently kiss, then he blinks back at me smirking. Mother sighs.
"Oh honey, what will I ever do without you?"
She kisses him again, strongly, then her dark curly mane and her gray tallieur finally leave the house.
"Ding doing, the witch is dead!" I hum, softly swinging the fork. Dad laughs and turns back to me, putting his finger on his nose. I laugh back.
Dad kinda looks like Van Gogh, if he was ripped and less bearded maybe. I remember watching Hercules for the first time with him when I was a child. I spent the whole week calling him Hankules. Totally Electra phase.
"Hankules" is a full time dad, former fireman — he got injuried on the job, he has wide shoulders and a warm smile. Too bad he married the evil queen instead of the princess. From him I hereditated his green eyes and the light brown hair. Mother left me her skinny silhouette (which is good for legs but left me flat as a board) the curly hair and the physical, obsessive urge to correct everyone and everything. She is a prosecuting attorney. Which means when she isn't busy ruining my life she spends the rest of her day ruining everyone else's.
Dad sits in front of me, quietly eating his scrambled egg. I take a sip of orange juice. My nails are getting chipped, I should get them fixed.
Someone once said: "Silence is gold."
Which is ironic. He should have written it at least. Whatever. Sharing a not embarrassing silence is rarer than a unicorn. He chews with his mouth closed, slowly. He looks focused and I stare at him. It is so relaxing. Like a pet, he doesn't even pay attention to me. What is this, am I happy? I think I'm happy.
Dad's done eating and drops the fork on the empty plate. He stares at me. I lower my eyelids, waiting in curiosity. He slowly starts to smile. I softly shake my head in confusion.
"So..." — he says "What about that art school?"
This is definetly what happiness should feel like.