My Place
She used to love it, his place. The smell of home cooked food always pervaded the air, rich scents that she had never experienced in her entire life. The food wasn't eaten from a silver tray with foreign utensils. Instead it was served in familiar chipped plates, with scrapes or scratches, mugs with colourful ink plastered upon the side in untidy scrawl, declaring it a certain occupant's property. Instead of stiff expensive seats for them to occupy as they ate in silence, they sprawled upon the lumpy couch, talk and laughter, filling the air of that small space they called home. It didn't matter if liquid was spilled onto the old threadbare rug. There was no help to warn, it was merely wiped with a napkin, any mark left with despair to join the others littering the carpet, telling a patterned story.
She adored the fact his father, no his Dad, always seemed to know what was going on in their lives. He asked questions about their day, and at the sign of trouble he didn't scream or yell, instead he spouted proverbial words of wisdom from softly smiling lips. He was a tangible parent, one they could touch and hug, one they knew. So different from the men her mother used to bring home, with eyes that brushed over her figure in an absolutely 'creepy way' as her brunette friend had described it once with a delicate shudder. At least now she didn't have to lock her door anymore, her new mother's husband never gave off that pungent odour, he never really seemed to notice her at all really.
Everyone always thought she had perfect, but this was perfect. She told him once, as they sat on the couch together, his strong arm wrapped around her. He had smiled wanly and hadn't replied. She never repeated it again, but once she tried to convince her mother to have dinner with her on the couch, just to talk. Her mother had lamented the white of the new pouf, had spouted about some gala or dinner or dance, she really had to get to.
"Maybe another time darling…"
She knew there never would be another time, so like a good little girl she never brought it up again.
She still thought about his place sometimes, as she sat in uncomfortable seat made for decoration rather than to fit her, listening to absolutely polite talk between thin lips, as anything real was left unsaid. She wanted to get up and scream, to escape back across the bridge to the place that she loved. But it wasn't her place to share, not any longer, so she remained seated, picking at her soufflé with her perfect silver fork.