Mr. Last Night
“Are you going to eat that?” I heard the voice of a father say to his son. The son looked up, not entertained by his meal that had been heated under the lamps of the cafe. The mother was on her phone scrolling, probably buying things on Amazon. The father had cleared three plates from the brunch buffet that were stacked in front of him. He was pouring his sugar into his coffee when he noticed his wife was not paying attention to him. He began to stir vigorously when he asked “would you like some coffee babe?” She didn’t look up and just shook her head back and forth, completely engaged in her phone. As he took a large gulp from his coffee, the waiter walked over to clear some plates. The father gestured a thank you with the classic head nod. Then the mother broke her gaze with the screen and said “Shall we go to the beach?” The boys didn’t say much, but simply started to get up. It seemed like the mother wore the pants in the marriage, as she dropped a hundred on the table before they walked out. I continued to watch them for a few moments, and then my attention was directed by the man sitting across from me. I looked at him, but more in a way through him. He held up his mimosa for a cheers, and I reached for my glass as well, something I was too familiar with. We bumped glasses and I gave him a small smirk. There’s a slight twinge of the lips that I make to appear as a smile, but anyone who knows me knows it’s not only fake, but a sign of annoyance. I had just met…. shoot…. what is his name? Mr.Last Night. It definitely was the last night anyway. I sipped my mimosa, or as I like to call it, my hang over cure. I felt the nausea wash over me as the acid began to burn my stomach. This scenario was more like a movie scene. My life has been this movie scene on replay for the last 4 years, but fortunately I like re-runs and familiar situations. I readjusted my position on the seat and sighed. Not heavily, but enough to be noticed. My mother always said I liked attention. Mr. Last Night looked at me and reached across the table to grab my hand. I pulled away slightly, but remembered that I must be nice since he’s buying this brunch. I let his fingers touch mine as he brushed them in-between the webs of my pointer and middle finger. God I hate being touched. Even more, I hate pretending to like it. But, this is the life I chose for myself. Another memory of my mothers words passed through my mind. That’s one rerun I don’t enjoy. I remember the smell of her breath as the smoke dribbled from her lips. I hated the way she would talk with a cigarette in her mouth, lips pressed together holding it there on the left side. I wondered if the left lung was the one that collapsed first when she died, or if they both equally gave up. I hated to remember her this way, but it’s just reality. She wasn’t a well liked women. She was harsh with her words and brash in the way she carried herself. She walked around like a truck driver with a pack of cigs in her back jean pocket, scuffed up biker boots, and a wild mess of hair that she wouldn’t let a hairdresser touch. There was only one hairdresser in our town anyhow, so she already got enough business. My mom used to parade me around, showing everyone what a great single mother she was. She would grab my hand and bring me into the bar, letting me belly up on the stool next to her. Luckily in our small town, Dan, the owner of the bar allowed it because his uncle was the sheriff. I love small towns. Sigh.
