29. Burnt Toast

Talk about bad-rushed decisions. This morning, over burnt toast, Dad was ready to do a little fucking around with my head (float like a butterfly) and that he did (sting like a bee).
.
‘I had the strangest dream last night,’ was his opening gambit. ‘Woke to the disturbing sight of you lurking about in my room, at my desk, banging around looking for I don’t know what. When I asked what you were doing, you said I was dreaming in a very odd voice, and to go back to sleep.’ He smiled. ‘And you know what, Leo?’
.
I gulped. ‘What?’
.
‘That’s just what I did. Went back to sleep.’
.
‘Good move…’
.
‘Yeah. Went right back to sleep and forgot all about it. But you know what?’
.
‘What?’
.
‘Well, I got to thinking. I know that was only a dream, but in real life, you know, I wouldn’t like the idea of you rummaging around in my desk. You know what I mean? So, I guess right here is as good as a time as any to draw some lines. Okay?’
.
‘Lines? Okay.’

.

.

‘Good. Here’s the thing: I don’t want you sitting at my desk, or going into my bedroom for that matter. It’s out of bounds, all right? In other words, you don’t go in there. It’s my own personal, private space. I keep my things there is what I’m saying. It might look like a mess to you, but not to me – I know where everything is. There’s order in the chaos, I assure you. I don’t want you moving things around so I can’t find them later. Know what I mean?’
.
‘Sure,’ I said.
.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘As long as we have that straight.’
.
I averted my eyes to consider my slippers, big left toe poking out of one. Time for a new pair, I made a note to myself.
.
‘We have got that straight, haven’t we?’
.
‘Straight as an arrow. Straight lines. Sure.’
.
And I’ve been wondering eversince: What’s he hiding in there?