The Embassy Suite in Downtown Portland
by
Rachel Sarah
At the door, there’s a peck on the cheek.
“Please. Don't do this."
He takes a seat in an oversized armchair by the window. "It's done," rain raps against the glass, unrelenting.
First year of college and my father has followed me across the country to put an offer on a house near my school.
Says we're going to live together. “Portland is good for business.” He says it's not permanent.
Dad never remarried. People say we're so close. They don't know.
Winter break passes, he’s put on weight. We're alone in the house, his smells suffocates me.
"I'm going out.” Bus curls downtown as rain against the roof.
I'm sitting in a café wrapped in ribbed tights and rain boots when a man offers to buy me a coffee.
When he laughs, his bright blue eyes wrinkle at the corners. His T-shirt is too snug. He must be twice my age. He mixes sugar into my cup without asking. It's too sweet.
The man gives me a ride home. I invite him in. My father’s is watching TV. I hang my jacket on the rack, pretending he can't see me.
My blouse is soaked from the downpour. Vulnerability fills the foyer.
I clasp this stranger's hand and pull him towards my room.
“Please. Don't do this."
He takes a seat in an oversized armchair by the window. "It's done," rain raps against the glass, unrelenting.
First year of college and my father has followed me across the country to put an offer on a house near my school.
Says we're going to live together. “Portland is good for business.” He says it's not permanent.
Dad never remarried. People say we're so close. They don't know.
Winter break passes, he’s put on weight. We're alone in the house, his smells suffocates me.
"I'm going out.” Bus curls downtown as rain against the roof.
I'm sitting in a café wrapped in ribbed tights and rain boots when a man offers to buy me a coffee.
When he laughs, his bright blue eyes wrinkle at the corners. His T-shirt is too snug. He must be twice my age. He mixes sugar into my cup without asking. It's too sweet.
The man gives me a ride home. I invite him in. My father’s is watching TV. I hang my jacket on the rack, pretending he can't see me.
My blouse is soaked from the downpour. Vulnerability fills the foyer.
I clasp this stranger's hand and pull him towards my room.
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
