Frolic looked up as the door to his flower shop opened. "Hey Jigen," he said as he was busy moving boxes around. He glanced over at the new kid working for him, a young man dressed in nice stylish clothing, his black hair styled perfectly, not one hair out of place. "Hey, Cecil. Get the order and take care of it, okay?"
Cecil nodded, going back to one of the large cooling containers and grabbing the dozen red roses already made up.
Jigen stood and waited, eyeing the kid as he approached. He couldn't help but notice how familiar he was.
Cecil handed the roses to Jigen. He too got the odd feeling of familiarity from Jigen. "Uh, that'll be eighteen even."
Jigen gave the kid a twenty. "See you tomorrow, Frolic," Jigen said, giving him a slight wave.
"Have fun tonight," Frolic called out from the back.
"Yeah, hopefully," Jigen muttered happily to himself as he got into his car and drove off.
Fifteen minutes later he pulled into the driveway of Cinnamon's
house. He glanced at his watch, seeing he was five minutes early.
Cinnamon was inside, putting the finishing touches on the food.
When the knock on the door came, she rushed over to answer it.
"Hey," Jigen said, holding the flowers out for her.
"Oh, they're beautiful." She took them, getting a vase to set them in.
Jigen remained quiet. He knew saying some cheesy romantic line would only make her angry.
"Make yourself comfortable," she said from the kitchen. "The food is just about done."
Jigen took his jacket off, draping it over the back of the couch.
He then wandered the living room, staring at some pictures.
One that caught his eye was a photo of Cinnamon and Berreta taken when
Berreta was ten. Her hair was short. 'Just like the kid at
Frolic's shop today...' He couldn't help but notice the uncanny
resemblance.
"Is everything okay?"
Jigen turned quickly, Cinnamon standing near the table. "Everything's fine," he said with a smile.
The two had sat down to their meal. Cinnamon did most of the talking, Jigen's mind too deep in thought about other things.
"Alright," Cinnamon said, setting her fork down on her plate. "What is it?"
"What is what?" Jigen asked dumbly.
"Something is bothering you. Now what is it?"
"It's...it's just something weird, that's all."
"Well?" Cinnamon was starting to get fed up. She was hoping this night would end up a little better than it was.
"There's some new kid at Frolic's shop..."
"And?"
"He looks like me." Jigen stared down at his plate. "He's like an older version of how Berreta looked as a kid."
"You mean, how she looks now?" There was silence. "Honestly, when was the last time you even saw your daughter?"
"It hasn't been that long," he said, defending himself. "I meant, the way her hair is, it's like how his is and-"
"Are you saying he's your son?" she barked.
"Huh?" Jigen looked at her and then laughed. "No, that's not it. I just think it's weird, that's all."
"You said I was your first." Cinnamon lowered her head and stared at her plate.
"And you were my first," Jigen said in a kind voice.
Cinnamon sighed deeply. "Maybe you should just leave..."
"But Cinnamon, I-"
"It obviously bothers you for some reason, so maybe I wasn't your
first. Maybe you're just lying to me, like all the other times
you lied. This dinner was about us, not about you thinking about
some kid. So, why don't you just leave?"
"I'm sorry," Jigen sighed. He stood, grabbing his coat and walking to the door, hesitating before opening it and leaving.
Glock was standing on the couch, his body very animated as he cheered
on one of his favorite wrestlers, yelling and hollering at the
television.
The door opened and Jigen dragged himself in, glancing at Glock as he walked by.
"Dad," Glock said, surprised to see him back. "What happened? You're back earlier than you said."
"Nothing happened," he said. "And get off the couch."
"Sorry," Glock said, stepping off and onto the floor. He could
tell by the tone of his fathers voice that something had
happened. "Another fight?" he sighed.
Jigen didn't answer. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight."
He plopped down on the couch as Jigen slammed his door closed. "Goodnight," he muttered, staring blankly at the TV.