LJ Idol, Week 2: Spoons
Mint green walls, a few shades too bright. White and gray flecked tile, mopped and bleached every night, easily sanitized. She taps the spoon on the edge of the porcelain, lets the excess milk drip back into the bowl. The oatmeal is too thin today.
The late afternoon sunshine streams in through the windows on the far wall, and she watches as it lights up the soft wisps of silver hair curling in thick waves across his scalp. Brown age spots, knuckles gnarled and full of ache, and he’s still too young to be in here. He’s too young for this; this spooning soggy oats into his disinterested mouth, this waiting for the random flashes of life, of acknowledgment. The brief moments when he knows her.
A little of the spoonful slips out of the corner of his mouth. She raises her left hand, the one holding the napkin in wait.
“Here, Dad,” she says. “Let me get that.” She smiles at him, and he blinks and smiles back, slow and surprised and absent.
///
The sun is just slipping the rest of the way behind the city’s skyline when she opens the door to the pub. It’s crowded tonight, the music and the shouting to be heard above it already raucous. She can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not, to go from the Home to this place, teeming and spilling over with so much colorful life.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because there he is at the end of a booth toward the back, scanning the crowd for her. When she catches his eye his whole face lights up, and he beckons with his free hand, the one not holding his beer. She slides in beside him and his arm goes around her, his hand warm and firm in the dip of her waist.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to make it, darlin’,” he says into her ear, and she shivers at his warm breath in the shell of her ear.
She unwinds her scarf and lets it pool in her lap. “Just got a little caught up,” she says back, and accepts the small whiskey he pushes her way. The group around them is laughing, calling cues and inside jokes back and forth, but she takes the moment to bask in the way his eyes go soft when he looks down at her. He’s flash and charm and belly laughs just like the others, but there’s a small quiet place in him, too, a place she’s made her own.
“Andy,” someone calls, “you remember the line for this one?” And fingers drum into the wood of the table and Andy laughs, high and young and deeply rooted to this moment.
“Course I do,” he says. “But I’m not playing finger sticks for you bastards.”
“Spoons!” someone calls. “Give us some spoons.”
He gives her a wink and she smiles back, and then he takes two spoons, backs curving against each other, between the fingers of one hand and smacks them experimentally against his thigh. They clack and rattle, and then he’s off, a clattering beat tapped out in silver between his thigh and palm. The longer he goes, the more the rhythm starts to feel like her heart, beating in her chest, the thump and the clamber made loud and real.
///
It’s cloudy today, and the nurses are late bringing the food trays. She feels the impatience of it, like a dark, rising tide she doesn’t want to crest. She imagines all the different colors she would paint the walls, given the chance. She plucks a loose thread from the cuff of his sweater and smooths out the sleeve. He looks over at her touch, and she looks him in the eye. A little furrow appears between his eyes as he watches her.
She picks up the spoon from the table, and breathes into the dip of it. She brings it up and settles it careful on the end of her nose, slowly lowering her hand away. “Remember this, Dad?” She presses her lips together, makes an elephant noise just like he used to do when she was very small, and he was very much the god of her world.
His lips twitch, and then he smiles at her, and laughs. It’s rough and rusty and tears spring up in her eyes.
“Rebecca,” her father says. “There you are, Rebecca.”
The late afternoon sunshine streams in through the windows on the far wall, and she watches as it lights up the soft wisps of silver hair curling in thick waves across his scalp. Brown age spots, knuckles gnarled and full of ache, and he’s still too young to be in here. He’s too young for this; this spooning soggy oats into his disinterested mouth, this waiting for the random flashes of life, of acknowledgment. The brief moments when he knows her.
A little of the spoonful slips out of the corner of his mouth. She raises her left hand, the one holding the napkin in wait.
“Here, Dad,” she says. “Let me get that.” She smiles at him, and he blinks and smiles back, slow and surprised and absent.
///
The sun is just slipping the rest of the way behind the city’s skyline when she opens the door to the pub. It’s crowded tonight, the music and the shouting to be heard above it already raucous. She can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not, to go from the Home to this place, teeming and spilling over with so much colorful life.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because there he is at the end of a booth toward the back, scanning the crowd for her. When she catches his eye his whole face lights up, and he beckons with his free hand, the one not holding his beer. She slides in beside him and his arm goes around her, his hand warm and firm in the dip of her waist.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to make it, darlin’,” he says into her ear, and she shivers at his warm breath in the shell of her ear.
She unwinds her scarf and lets it pool in her lap. “Just got a little caught up,” she says back, and accepts the small whiskey he pushes her way. The group around them is laughing, calling cues and inside jokes back and forth, but she takes the moment to bask in the way his eyes go soft when he looks down at her. He’s flash and charm and belly laughs just like the others, but there’s a small quiet place in him, too, a place she’s made her own.
“Andy,” someone calls, “you remember the line for this one?” And fingers drum into the wood of the table and Andy laughs, high and young and deeply rooted to this moment.
“Course I do,” he says. “But I’m not playing finger sticks for you bastards.”
“Spoons!” someone calls. “Give us some spoons.”
He gives her a wink and she smiles back, and then he takes two spoons, backs curving against each other, between the fingers of one hand and smacks them experimentally against his thigh. They clack and rattle, and then he’s off, a clattering beat tapped out in silver between his thigh and palm. The longer he goes, the more the rhythm starts to feel like her heart, beating in her chest, the thump and the clamber made loud and real.
///
It’s cloudy today, and the nurses are late bringing the food trays. She feels the impatience of it, like a dark, rising tide she doesn’t want to crest. She imagines all the different colors she would paint the walls, given the chance. She plucks a loose thread from the cuff of his sweater and smooths out the sleeve. He looks over at her touch, and she looks him in the eye. A little furrow appears between his eyes as he watches her.
She picks up the spoon from the table, and breathes into the dip of it. She brings it up and settles it careful on the end of her nose, slowly lowering her hand away. “Remember this, Dad?” She presses her lips together, makes an elephant noise just like he used to do when she was very small, and he was very much the god of her world.
His lips twitch, and then he smiles at her, and laughs. It’s rough and rusty and tears spring up in her eyes.
“Rebecca,” her father says. “There you are, Rebecca.”