“If you have any questions about death, press one. If you are settled with your fate, press two. If you really wish for your death, call me again and I will fulfill it. Seriously, just fucking text me. Ciao.”
Mike chuckled. His father was something. By something, he meant weird, of course.
When the man finally picked up the call, he heard the usual grumbling noise. His old man hated answering calls more than his job as an architect. And as an architect, well, he had to answer a lot of calls.
“Dad! How's my man? Bet you doin' good!” He ran his fingers through his autumn-brown hair; made a bee-line to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Back at his apartment, his fridge was mostly empty, saved for a pitcher of water and some fruits. The only moment his fridge became full was whenever his long time girlfriend, Chelsea, visited him and bought grocery for him. Courtesy of his own money, of course. (He had this sort of pride as a man)
Seeing the content of the fridge now, Mike nodded. Yep, he was definitely in his parents' house.
He dropped by twice in a month. Sometimes more than that whenever his mother called him, crying, telling him how much she missed her only child. And since he was a mama's boy (which Chelsea found adorable and attractive, so he really didn't mind to be called like that), what could he do but comply and embrace the woman who gave life to him?
“Good? You mean I'm doin' bad. I mean, I'm good, but you know how much I hate these people! I wish I could rip off their heads and toss them into a trash bin.”
His chuckle resonated in the kitchen.
“You don't mean that.”
“Sure I do.”
He could imagine his father tapping his right foot; his lips forming a thin line; his wrinkling forehead.
Mike used to fear his father as a kid because he thought he was always angry. Well, yes, but never violent. He grew up just laughing at his behavior.
“Hey, listen, dad. I've got a plan, and I need your help.”
“Oh?” The tone suddenly changed. Curiosity always winning over anger, he guessed.
“You know...I've been thinking: What if I marry Chelsea now?”
“What?!” He almost dropped the apple he had pulled out from the fridge at his father's reaction.
“What?” his father repeated, but in a whispered manner.
“I heard you the first time! What are you thinking?”
“What? What's wrong? I thought you like Chelsea?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“So why do you sound like you are against my idea?”
“You don't get it, idiot! What I mean is, what are you thinking? Why it took you so long to think about it? Are you insane? Chelsea is a great girl and I would love to have her as my daughter-in-law, you bastard! Now stop chit-chatting with me and go to your girl, kneel before her---to propose, not to eat her---and ask for that damn hand!”
© Cassandra C. Hansson, 2018. All rights reserved.