❛ Whatever you’re already making is fine, ❜ She says, smoothly, as if she’s trying not to offend with her drink choices. She wants to tell him her drink habits haven’t changed since she tried coffee for the first time when she was eleven, and promptly dumped half the jar of sugar in and didn’t drink coffee again until she was nineteen. She wants to tell him she still likes green tea best, because it’s what she used to drink when she was sick, and it always made her feel better. But she doesn’t tell him anything, only smiles politely — she nods back at him, and it feels like they’re dancing around real conversation, niceties holding them in a chokehold. A deep breath is necessary, one that’s hard to take. And it’s still not released. ❛ Do you have plates? ❜
Of course he has plates, dumbass. Do you think he eats out of a dog bowl? She flinches, almost unnoticeably, out of awkwardness in the phrasing of her request. ❛ I mean … like, where … you keep them. ❜ She knows she didn’t need to clarify, but she felt as if she did. She felt as if she needed to say everything perfectly. She needed to prove something to him. As if to say: I grew up fine without you. I know how to ask for plates. — Kitchen china, in that moment, is the whole signifier of her adulthood. She made it. She hopes her plates are nicer than his. It’s small, and it’s petty, and it’s something so wholly unimportant she almost laughs at herself. It’s weird, being in constant competition with someone who doesn’t even know they’re playing the game. But she’s always been eager to please, willing to go the extra mile to just be liked. And that doesn’t change, no matter how many miles away someone was. No matter how long they were gone.
❛ Sorry, this is … weird. ❜ She confesses, and even saying four words so simple feels as if she’s lifted something off her chest. The chokehold is gone. ❛ I — I can go, if you want. ❜ A quick gesture towards the door, but she doesn’t move. She looks at her father almost expectantly, for once in their conversation doe eyes not glimmering with tears. Instead, there’s almost a challenge. Half broken, half hopeful, but a glimmer of something: tell me to stay, or I won’t come back. There’s always a certain sadness in a child that wants to be wanted, or in any person begging for affection previously unreceived. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in. ❛ Or … I think we should talk. ❜ She’s sorry she said anything — it could have been a nice lunch, a step towards forgiveness and mended relationships. But of course, it wouldn’t be life without the turbulence of spilled words. She just hopes he spills back the ones she wants to hear.
‘ coffee then. ’ he says, presenting another half-there smile. his back turns towards her, his eyes lingering on the kettle that starts to release steam, although still silent. he needn’t be so watchful, but it’s something to do. he reaches for the cabinet above the stovetop, pulling the jar of folger’s from the front. it’s the instant stuff, easy, convenient - but rarely used often in favour of taking a trip down to jess’ instead. he’s not sure why he even offered coffee in the first place, it just seemed like the right thing to do. finally, he turns around and he makes his smile obviously present, trying his best to convey how much he’s enjoying her company, how stilted and awkward. his charisma’s never hidden in the face of pre-pubescent kids or angst-ridden teenagers, but his full grown daughter seems to be an entirely different tale.
‘ uh, just below you actually. the kitchen island thing has cabinets - kinda weird, but... ’ he shrugs, before pivoting on his heel and opening the refrigerator door. god, he hopes the milk hasn’t gone off. he unscrews the lid, and isn’t met with an immediate stench which is a relief in itself. he swishes it around, before deciding that it’s still fresh. he wonders if she’s watching him, judging him, silently scoffing at the fact that he had the audacity to leave his family and return no wiser, not even smart enough to purchase a new jug of milk. or maybe that’s all him. he doesn’t tell her that sometimes he even uses paper plates just to avoid the cleanup. whatever it is, she picks up on something. enough to make her want to leave and it induces an inevitable sense of failure that he thought he’d be able to put off until after she left at the very least.
‘ no, it’s not weird, it’s ... it’s not weird. ’ he assures, and his smile falters but it’s in the soft calm of upturned lips that authenticity appears. he realizes he’s still holding the milk, cradling it with a tightened grip. he sets it down on the table. ‘ nonsense, let’s eat. ’ his gaze meets hers, a second at most, before he pulls the brown paper bag towards him and peers inside. ‘ i’ve gotta say, their burgers are some of the best i’ve had. the fries too. ’ his commentary is accompanied by him retrieving the burgers from the bag, sliding one towards her and taking the other for himself. he pushes the paper bag between the two, they can dump the fries once the plates have been distributed. ‘ yeah, let’s talk. ’ he says, and he’s not trying to avoid but the food provides fruitful distraction. his tone is marred by levity, is he expected to be more serious ? ‘ is there -- -- something particular you wanted to talk about ? ’ he asks, his gaze on the burger before him, and whether it’s an act of cowardice or pure hunger has yet to be deciphered.
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