Page 54 of Rough

“I didn’t call him fat. I said that little minibike he was riding would get exhausted hauling his fat ass around. There’s a difference.”

She set her purse down and turned toward the kitchen. “It’s almost time for dinner. Are you going to stay?”

“I should get,” I said.

“I think he’s sweet on my nurse,” Pop said. “Truth be told, he came by here to get a look at her. Trying to get up the guts to ask her on a date, but he doesn’t have the guts.”

God damn it.

She stopped and turned around. “Tegan? She’s so sweet. You should shave that thing off your face and have Rita cut your hair. Then you could ask her on a date. Nice girls don’t want to go out with heathens, Brad. If you want her to even consider it, you should cut that mess off.”

“Told him the same thing, Deann.”

“She’s a very, very nice girl.” She looked at my father. “How old is she?”

“Twenty-five.”

She looked at me and grinned a hopeful grin. “She’d be perfect for you.”

“I’m not looking to get in a relationship,” I said apologetically.

“Well,” she said. “You need to do something. And, you’re staying for dinner. We’re going to talk about this. You’re too old to be single.”

Sunday night dinner at my parent’s home used to be something I did with regularity, but in recent years, it had become very irregular.

Every opportunity my mother had to force me to eat at home, she took advantage of. Each time I complied with her wishes, the conversations ended up being my single status, and when I was going to bless them with grandchildren.

I looked at my mother. She was 66, and had married my father a few days before she turned 17. She was a petite woman, roughly Tegan’s size, and was as close to a saint as any woman could ever be.

Talking shit to my father was easy, saying no to my mother was not.

“I’ll stay for dinner, but we don’t need to talk about--”

“Go shave your face, Brad. Your father’s little clippers are in the bathroom, in the cabinet. I’ll have dinner ready when you’re done.”

“What are we having?”

“Fried chicken,” she said. “And maybe a potato. Your father still likes potatoes with his fried chicken.”

“Sit down, shit head,” my father said. “She’ll never get anything done with you standing there with your gob flopped open.”

“Bradley!”

“I’m hungry, Deann. Let’s get this show on the road.”

I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I hadn’t cut my hair in years. I hadn’t trimmed my beard in six months, and I hadn’t cut it in longer than I could remember.

I tried to remember what I looked like before I had the hair. I pulled it tight to my head with one hand, and pressed my beard back with the other.

I wondered if my mother was right, and if Tegan’s opinion on matters would change if I looked differently.

***

“Dinner’s ready!”

The bathroom door muffled my mother’s voice, but hearing her brought me back to my senses.

I’d been daydreaming about fucking Tegan again.