Sunday August 4, 2019
A Dull Yellow Presence
Aida reaches across the table and takes a sip of her father’s unsugared coffee. It tastes like tar.
“What are you doing?” He’s back from the washroom, hands in his pockets, crease between his eyebrows deeper than when he left.
“I just wanted to – …”
“That’s for grown-ups.” He sits down and stacks his cutlery on his plate, putting the paper napkin, folded, on top.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” Aida gets that sinking feeling in her stomach and wonders when her mother will pick her up. Saturday morning breakfasts with her father were court ordered. No one checked with her.