some people // rook

“you won’t let it make you mad”

pereira swallow-birch - forty six district two

It's not the footsteps, or the heavy breathing that alert me to the appearance of my eldest son, but the stench of sweat that precedes him. I exhale, blowing smoke into the air above me with a half-sigh. Slowly, I open my half closed eyes and gaze at him lazily. The perspiration drips from him, onto the marble floor and I restrain myself from chiding him about it. At least I know he's been practicing hard. His wide shoulders heave, and his squinty eyes shine with a mixture of pride and - no, could it be - contempt, for my own lethargy. He's seen me active, fought against me even. What right does he have to regard me so? "Untouched, two hours," he boasts, and I reward him with a small smile, however quickly I begin to scrutinise him. How will my children ever improve, if I don't point out their faults to them? "Fix your hair," I remark, "you're a gentleman, not some common fistfighter. If you want to train like one, you must present yourself like one." I tap the end of my cigarette holder against the carved glass ash tray and leave it resting inside the bowl, smoke wafting lazily up. "And where's the proof of your work? No art for me?" Gesturing to the corner of the room, where a canvas spattered in a way some might call 'expressionist' and some might just dub 'insane', I continue "Elliot created this in his last session. I wanted to exhibit both of yourself together." Tutting, I shake my head, "I'm afraid to say you've disappointed me, darling." The pride is gone from his face, replaced by something much cloudier that I can't place - but I can feel that his retort will betray whatever he's feeling. And this, I consider a success.