Pervade and Faint

Chapter 36

I rubbed my sore eyes with the sleeves of my jacket as soon as I woke up, from a nap that seemed to be marginally larger than just forty winks. The crumbs of biscuits were scattered everywhere, on my lap and the car. I checked my watch, three o seven. I slept for four hours! I didn't even remember falling asleep. I turned the heater off. There was a dark blankness in-front of my eyes, due to which everything appeared opaque. The light of the sun reached the earth through the cracked clouds. The windshield offered more light than probably even the sun. I cleaned the grime in my eyes with a tissue and looked up. The car was still parked in front of Latif Bagri's house, which perplexed me. I could have sat there, or probably slept there, for another hour or so, but I had to go back. I had to pick dad at five. I took a sharp glance at my watch, and then at the house, but not a farewell glance.
'I'm sorry Sophia'.
Anger simmered in me as I took off. I couldn't get my mind of his house, or car as I retraced the path, whence I came. I couldn't even stop myself from thinking of the old man, and his biscuits. The sweet taste of oatmeal still lingered in my mouth.

The traffic grew thick, which made it more and more complicated to drive, especially with the strenuous addition of tense.

After covering twenty harsh miles, I decided to call Tyrese, for it was a vow. And he was a clean pair of hands.

Tyrese picked up at the first ring. I told him everything in detail, mentioning the old man, his biscuits and everything else. Even subtle information was told. Tyrese didn't laugh or jest asked all, which proved that he was serious and concerned about my matter. Tyrese picked up the conversation, informing me about what I should do next. He instructed me to go again the next day, but at twelve. Once again, he told me to keep him aware of everything and I promised.
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When I was in front of dad's office, I gave him a call. At ten past five. Dad cut my call, which perplexed me for a while. But not when the passenger door opened, bringing in a cold breeze, the metallic scent of winter, and dad.
"No no, you drive", said dad, abruptly as I detached the seatbelt. Dad loved when I drove, especially when mom was in the back. But now, mom wasn't there.

"Stop over here", ordered dad, in front of a general store, which stood on the verge of the road which led to our college. Another ocean of memories flowed in my mind. Memories affiliated with Sophia.

Dad entered the store, and I followed his tail. Dad didn't walk idle in the aisles. By the ways, that's just not a habit of men, especially not my father. On the other hand, women own the habit of wandering in aisles, sometimes for a purpose, mostly without one. But it's only partially their fault. They spend most of their time in their homes. And they know much of the necessities. By the ways, money has to be evaporated, in the form of spending.

"Are these the salted ones?" asked dad, with a bag of pistachios in his hand. I perused the label, without actually taking the bag from his hands.
"Yeah, slightly seasoned", I answered and stared at him.
"Do you like these ones or the plain ones?" he asked. I didn't know that he was buying them for me.
"It's okay, whatever you prefer", I said, kindly.
"These are fine I guess", he suggested and picked them up.
"You don't really have to buy them for me", I said, as he was checking out the other dry fruits.
At my words, dad stopped, changing his bent position into an upright, vertical position. He looked straight into my eyes, as if in pursuit of something.
"You didn't lose your father yet", he said and placed his warm and sympathetic hand on my check.
"I'm sorry for not giving you enough time these past few days", he continued and shifted his hand from my check to my right shoulder, giving it a gentle rub.

"These ones are fine right?" he asked, shunting the conversation back to dry fruits.
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We bought a lot of dry fruits, biscuits, coffee, and all the other things which a mother is most likely to buy for her children, rather than a father.