Page 22 of The Leaves In Autumn
Tearing the last two squares of toilet paper left on the roll, I begin to take care of business. The sound of the door opening and someone’s steps on the tile interrupts my life review. Black dress shoes stop in front of my stall. Men’s shoes.
“Barbra. You in there?”
“What the hell, Aargon! You lost?”
“No. It’s alright. No one else is in here. Listen, I wanted to talk to you before you ask that guy to go with you to Dove’s concert. You didn’t do it yet, did you?”
I am attached to the toilet seat by intrigue. Strong adhesive.
“No. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because we could go together. It would be more fun, right?”
I have no way of knowing how he means it. Is he asking me out on a date or figuring how to get out of going stag? That stare he was giving me earlier messes with my mind. I flush and the loud echo fills the room.
“Is that your answer?”
“No,” I say opening the stall door and walking past him to the sink. “I guess we could. Yeah. We can get wasted and not care if we make an ass out of ourselves.”
“Elegantly put. Succinct. It’s a date.”
It is?
CHAPTER 7
Aargon
“Teddy. Come on. The limo’s here.”
“Wait just a second. I’m going live.”
“Shit.”
The one-word comment works against me. In his world content is king and I just gave him some. His exasperated father saying shit. He is somewhere else now with thefollowers. Cult much? I sound like an old man pissed that he isn’t part of what is happening now. I don’t want to be.
Whenever my son angles the cell at me, I want to hide. In my own house. It’s relentless. Now I know what a celebrity feels like getting dogged by the paparazzi. They show remarkable control.
The two weeks he has been home from school seem like ten. Not that I would ever trade them. But goddamn. It is annoying in the extreme.
I put up with it because I trust the process after all these years. Love requires putting up with all kinds of things. Differences. He’s putting up with mine. Tonight’s narrative begins as he speaks to the masses.
“So, the party is about to start. We’re going to the Montana concert. Wait for it. AS GUESTS OF DOVE SOLOMON! Dad has had it with me, and we aren’t out the house yet.”
My thoughtful read of the situation ends. That chuckle pisses me off.
“Hi, Brittney. That’s very nice of you. Thanks.”
How does he do that? He’s reading the comments, filming and talking to disembodied heads floating by all at the same time. On some level, it’s genius.
“Look how cool my dad looks.”
I ignore the camera, the compliment, and walk to the door.
“Dad! Turn around! They want to see what you’re wearing!”
“Don’t be doing that in the car. No one wants to be filmed every second. I fucking mean it.”
Following me, he laughs at my reaction and continues with the bullshit.
