Pakis, Arabs, Caucasians, and Blacks did not know how I felt I tried not to think about dad, about his death, about finding a job, about calling Alison and asking if I could sleep with her one last time to comfort me in my remorse.
I don’t know how it happened but it wasn’t long before I was talking to her, trying not to cry.
“Alison,” my voice must have sounded shaky.
“Are you ok, I haven’t heard from you in ages?”
I blurted it out, “My father’s dead, I think he’s been murdered…”
She gasped a gasp similar to when she was climaxing. “Are you ok?”
What do you think, of course I’m not ok, I felt like roaring down the phone, but she didn't deserve that. I would save my anger for a greasy hot dog vendor, crying children, or an overweight bus driver that had been glued to public transport and the list went endlessly on.
I said nothing, she said nothing.
“I can come over if you want?”
I smiled, I would have liked that very much, but I couldn’t trust myself with her, and it wouldn’t be right on George. George was her new man, ten years her senior, balding, greying hair a real suit and tie man.
“No,” I shook, “I’ll be ok, just want to talk to someone.”
If I wanted to talk to someone I would have just dialled any random number.
“Hello,” I would have said, “I want to talk to you about my father’s death. Do you have time?”
“Get lost you fucking freak!”
“If you ever ring this number again I’ll get the frigging cops on you do you fucking hear?!”
We stopped talking, I ripped the phone out of the socket, she wouldn’t be coming by, I felt terrible, the bed would be my only comfort.