He’s coming to dinner.All the women fussing over this and that. Irritating. I sit in my chair pretending to read my paper, eavesdropping. I feel them glancing in my general direction nervous. Has a good job they say. Comes from a good family. We’ll see. He arrives awkward, searching for signs he won’t get from me. Sit over there, boy. I can see the terror in his eyes, hear the tremor in his voice. Good. Let him squirm. Doesn’t he know no one is just going to waltz in here and take my daughter?
© Patrick O’Neill 2010. All rights reserved