Chapter 58q: The Eternal Temptress
Our eternal confrontations have brought me here again, my friends.
I see all of you haven't changed a bit.
Or perhaps a little. I see the spunky one of you lot got a makeover; labels may not define who we are but you look a whole lot fresher for it. And the oddball has finally fallen into line, having gained a tan to match the hue of his contemporaries.
They are not like the snobby ones across the aisle, with their slender necks and tall statures and fancy names.
I take a deep breath. What the fuck am I doing?
You've got to get your act together, Quinn.
Am I trying to find excuses? To repeat things?
No.
Decisively, I push my wheelchair forwards, out of the alcohol aisle without even touching a single product.
It was nice seeing you, my friends.
Instead, the little basket I can drag along with me holds some apples, ham, bread, milk, sausages and eggs. We've still got the canned beans for breakfast, and the apples are just there to not completely fall into the unhealthy English breakfast stereotype.
The lass at the service counter sees me approach and opens up another lane. How kind of her... or maybe it is just because the open lane is narrower and unlikely to fit my wheelchair.
Ugh. I'm going to pretend she's just being kind. But not the pitying kind.
We produce some small talk, and I find myself staring in her eyes as she works. The youthful twinkle and artful touches of mascara aside, I really just want to know what she sees.
Does she see someone to pity? Or am I still attractive enough despite being about two decades older than her? Nevermind the wheelchair bit, that too turns women off I believe.
As I pay, she offers me a smile. I try to find meaning in it, and I think I found it.
A damn pity smile. Figures.
Ah well. I collect the last of my products, making sure nothing will get squashed in the shopping bag. Once I am finally satisfied with the way the products are stacked, I wheel my way out of the store while shaking my head at myself. The irony isn't lost on me.
How can I be so eager for some validation, while the son that hates me is trying so hard to ignore every bit of female attention that drifts his way? It must be a cruel joke played upon me by Heaven.
Just the visit to the park last week was like an impossible battle to get that kid to agree upon. If it wasn't for Zoe, I don't think he'd have agreed to come. Were it not for Zoe's tactful disappearance on some kind of call and leaving him to push me around, I doubt we'd ever have spent some quality time together that did not involve the presence of Black Sabbath's guttural roars booming through the walls.
That damn kid.
I knew something was wrong when he tried to steer me onto a smaller side path to avoid those girlfriends approaching in the distance. Too bad for him, but they noticed, and they basically admitted he's the little stud of the group that refuses to put out.
It should be a good thing, but in a way... I am just so damn ashamed of him.
'Girls are not going to throw themselves at you your whole life, boy!'
That's what I wanted to yell at him when he finally found an excuse to get rid of them. Is he going to be a damn monk for life?
It is a good thing Matilda can't see this happening; she was always looking forward to meeting his girlfriend and perhaps seeing the kind of grandkids that'd result.
Oh, Matilda...
The sudden tap on my shoulder makes me realize I just stood still on the sidewalk, lost in my own thoughts. I crane my neck and... what'd you know, it is him! I can't believe it!
That's the first time he's actually initiated contact.
Matilda! Your son and I are finally gett-
"Oh. You're alive. Nevermind."
And off he saunters towards our apartment without waiting up for me. Holding that damn shopping bag. Without an inkling of care towards his father or his budding glee.
THIS DAMN BOY!