Today's writing

The fruity taste in my mouth – we’re smoking Skittles-flavored tobacco – curdles when he says: “Want to tell me what it’s about?”

My veins turn to concrete. No. I don’t.

“I’m not your father. I’m just asking.”

He’s right. He’s not my father. The difference is welcome and yet often jolting. He is relaxed where my father is rigid, loose where my father is structured. I sometimes find myself wishing he were more critical of the world around him, angry as I can sometimes flash into anger – and then I realize that – no. It’s not what I want at all.