❝ For father's day, I wish for you to go and fuck yourself. ❞ | Belated, but from his boi.
Andrés, currently known as Berlín, sits with his legs propped up on a second chair. He is tapping his nearly-finished cigarette staring emotionlessly at the boy as he enters the room. ‘Who is to say I won’t?’ Words are as dry as ash. He could scold the kid, but that would make it seem like he is more responsible for him than he is or has ever wanted to be.
‘Has your babysitter left you to sulk?’ Tokyo, of course, is nowhere to be seen. The worst part is that they probably think they are being clever. ‘Or to what exactly do I owe the pleasure? You know,’ he pauses, smearing the bud of the cigarette:
‘Most fathers would have washed their child’s mouth with soap for saying that — just to give of the impression that they care. You are clever enough to know that it’s bullshit and just their vanity being hurt.’