I cruised his lounge room as the kettle came to a boil. It wasn't a room I was comfortable in. It was stainless steel and black and hard. An oversize television screen dominated the space. Everything had its place. It was the sort of room only visited even by its owner. I had been going out, and *****ing in, with him for almost a year but that remained the picture I had of him. He had all the toys --- tailored suit; red sports car; straight cut hair; straighter teeth; shiny trinkets --- but it were as if he kept the real him tidied out of the way. I picked up a small wire sculpture of an a****l. A pig? It did nothing for me. I put it back in its place on the dustless sideboard. Maybe it was the challenge of excavating the real him that kept me with him. How traditionally female was that? I could bet he was powering his life with a significant overdraft but that was not mine to fix. I pushed my mind to other things.Like just being able to walk about, naked, as the morning air was. I guess I’m being cryptic. It hasn’t gotten to an unbearable point in the last 13 years, although since the start of my senior year in high school she has been a bit worse than usual. First, let me explain my mother. She has always been a very self absorbed woman. She comes from money and has never done without. You could also says she’s the sort who knows she’s beautiful and talented, and easily looks down on those beneath her. She likes nothing more than to take my older sister, Corinne, out to the best mall and go power-shopping all day in matching Chanel business suits. They come back from their outings, giggling about how many store clerks asked if they were sisters. You see.. she isn’t a bad mother, she just doesn’t always have the time, or the presence of mind, to be the best mother. My father, on the other hand, is wonderful. I get my poetic side from him. He loves to come dancing into the room and make up silly yarns about him being the elder king protecting his auburn.
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