t h r e e || Reprimanding Bosses And Bad Ideas

|21st January 2019|

I want your suggestion regarding how I should propose to Olwyn.

Shoving more pasta onto my plate, I stomp my way towards the dining table, not understanding what the devil in me has possessed of my limbs that I am now bestowing upon the wooden panels I have for flooring in my apartment, my untamed anger.

She's a nice person. I feel we can make this thing work.

I sit down, and amidst all of my mental commotion, open my mouth to an angle that perhaps even carnivores seldom open to, and stuff the vacant area with a forkful of pasta, quickly realizing what a mistake I have made by trying to punish myself for his words.

But that's the thing about mistakes, and the regret and repentance that follows them- they're unavoidable. And I don't say this just to sound philosophical and wise; I say it with experience, because no matter how much or how hard I try, the two aforementioned statements I can plainly not afford to get off my mind. And shucks, let's not even get started on that goddamn kiss.

To most, the ease with which I lost the grip I'd spent five years (I gave up only after four years of endless searching) incarcerate within thirty hours of seeing Elliot might come off as a hilarious occurrence.

It might set a few ticking.

A small number from the human civilization might even find ways to sympathize with me.

And that is exactly why I have always drawn a line between people and myself, because our minds don't work as one, because whilst they pretend to know what to feel for me, I, despite being under the lulling spell of trouble and anxiety, don't.

What I did the other night isn't an action I simply regret. It is one I wholeheartedly, completely, thoroughly, with all my heart and life, regret and hate myself for doing. Or, perhaps, for the sake of excusing myself from the guilt and shame of the actions, hate myself for allowing myself to let it happen.

If I'm going to be honest, then at this point of discussion, I consider it worth mentioning that it isn't often that I do anything on impulse. I have good regard for my self-respect and even better of the repercussions that will happen if I allow myself to let random events lead me astray, and I intend to keep it that way. Yet, when around Elliot, the only person who somehow manages to tie my nerve cells into knots that can never be untied, I doubt that a replacement of such a habit will be taking place anytime soon.

I don't even have to think twice to know what a painful piece of hell my life is bound to transform into, in the coming thirty days.

My eyes flit to the phone beside my plate of pasta, the vibration catching my attention, and upon noticing Dave's name flash on the screen, a relieved smile constructs itself on my lips. Looks like life hasn't yet taken up the task of making me feel utterly miserable.

"Hey kid," he greets when I answer the call.

I assimilate before answering, "Hey, Dave. How are you?"

"Perfect if we exclude the flu I've caught due to the terrible weather. What 'bout you?"

Since this is the first time that I am talking to Dave after he left for his holiday, and after I allowed stupidity and impulsiveness to rule over my mind, he obviously has no clue of the unspeakable that has happened in the past three-four days leading his absence. I'm pretty sure this call is going to be full of shocks for the man, because the decision he had assumed would bring bliss and glory into my life in all its happy forms, has instead brought trouble and misery, in all its destructive forms. I sigh, discouraged. "Far from perfect, actually," I answer.

"Celeste," his voice holds caution as he utters my name, a questioning ring to the last syllable, "What's wrong?"

I drop the fork from my hand, sinking deeper into my chair. There is a clinking sound that echoes around the corners of the room when the metal hits the glass, yet I can hear only the silent ache inside my heart, longing for somebody to do something to ease the fatigue in my mind, and the restlessness in my muscles. "Do you know whose marriage I'm planning?"

"A multi millionaire's son's?" he offers, oblivious to my mental trauma.

Ah, if only the matter would stop at that.

And then, as if my mind is a wick, and his words a burning flame, I am set ablaze. I make sure my tone and choice of words do a good job of showing him this state of mine when I speak up almost promptly, "I knew this was a bad idea, I told you. Dave, all of this is because- you know what? I'm the stupid one here. Like, fuck, how did I not see it coming? Only he had the house papers and−"

I hear him huff in annoyance and before I can anticipate its arrival, his shrill voice is yelling over my peaceful one. Such a bloody interrupter. "Hello, can you please explain it in my language?"

I let out an anxious breath, trying to calm my poor, crippled heart. "Remember Elliot?" I catechize tightly.

There is a second's silence on the line, as if he is holding his breath, waiting for me to drop the inevitable bomb. "Yeah, why? How's he related here?" he sounds confused now. I agree, Dave, my life is way more messed up than one owns the potential of understanding all at once.

"Apparently, it's his marriage I'm planning and that--" my voice fades in search of a good alternate name for Elliot. Asshole? Jerk? Wanker? Yes, 'wanker', I think, will prove to be a really flattering term of address for his new personality. "-wanker's name isn't even Elliot. It's Aric Nithercott. Beat that." I sigh as I end, barely able to grasp as of yet how my world has turned upside down because of one extremely stupid decision made on one extremely stupid person's behalf. And the worst part? I don't even know what to call him anymore; Aric: the new fancy name, or Elliot: the one that holds so much meaning for me.

There is a gasp I hear from the other side of the line, and it is quite overdramatic if you ask me, and it reminds me of the times I have wondered if Dave Malfrey was born a male by mistake. But then, considering how much shame he would have put the entire female population to the moment he would've been given birth to, I prompt myself to think of Jesus' decision of making him one of the males as something wise. That way, he is causing ruination to the male population only. "What the hell?!"

"Yeah, hell. Exactly what my life has become." I murmur, feeling harrowed for a lifetime.

A momentary silence lapses around us, and I take this time to push a forkful or two of pasta into my mouth once again. I presume he is contemplating whether or not I will like hearing words of sympathy or prefer a silence of mourning over our lack of coherent decision-making capabilities. Either will make no difference, though; I am now determined to think of this marriage proposal as the worst thing to ever happen to me, even more than Elliot himself. Then, after a long minute of quiet, sighing, "I'm so sorry..." he apologizes. There is sincerity in his voice, and it does nothing but make me want to throw up the food that I'm eating, because I don't deserve it, because I didn't let the matters end there. Because he has to wait until I tell him what an awesome contribution I've made to this horrendous catastrophe nicknamed marriage planning to decide whether or not he feels so sorry for me.

"Don't be." I bite my lower lip before continuing with extreme effort. "It's not like I... didn't do anything stupid either." My voice is feeble towards the end, and almost inaudible when compared to the sound of the slap I give my forehead, when despite my attempts, I remain unable to stop remembering and replaying that age-old fuzzy feeling that had raced through my veins and arteries when I had kissed him.

What was wrong with me then? No, seriously, were all my brain cells trying to imitate Dave and go on a vacation?

"What did you do?"

I'll tell you, wait. But please don't get ropes, knives, and guillotines and ask me how I'd like to die.

"Well, you see," I start, simultaneously thinking of ways to justify my actions although I know my attempts are going to face an utterly futile doom. Like, who on bloody Mars kisses someone when they're annoyed with them, huh? Only a cretinous, vacuous, daft, asinine ignoramus. Formerly known as Celeste Wilson. Yeah, that's me. Thank you so much for the virtual standing ovation. "He was annoying me by asking how he should propose to his to-be-wife so..." I trail off, not wanting to complete my sentence. He will surely classify me as a runaway patient from the lunatic's asylum.

"You slapped him?" he cries warily.

If only I'd resorted to that, and not kissing. Seriously, stuff I do at times makes me question the existence of a properly-functioning brain inside my skull.

I angrily throw the fork at the plain cream wall. I haven't told anyone, not even my own sister, Jael, about this, and I blame the reason all of this has to be kept and done in secrecy on Dave's incredible convincing skills and his age-old habit of misusing them. No, seriously, imagine things if he had postponed his vacation and taken up this task for himself. Or imagine if he had paid a little more attention to Elliot's features and recognized him as the boy from my past, because of whose sudden departure from my life I had to take up this job in the first place. Or, the best imagination: straight away told Elliot and his adopted parents that our firm didn't plan marriages for people holding such high standards, that we were simple people doing simple jobs, and willing to plan simple events and marriages. "Wish I'd done that but no−"

"Kicked his manhood?"

I grimace. That wouldn't have been a very neat sight. "Ugh, no. You see, he was being so−"

"Celeste Wilson, what did you do?" he demands, his tone rising by an octave.

I sigh for the millionth time since this morning, and upon realizing that is no point in hiding it from the person because of whom all of this is happening, "I kissed him," I groan out, wanting to fling myself off the window of my flat.

I think the sooner I start accepting the fact that he's getting married to someone else, and put aside the bitter truth that he has yet to break our engagement from nine years, the better. It's not that I still consider myself his fiancée or anything akin, but oh well...

"Wow! Lovely, don't you think?" he yelps, not missing a beat, his loud voice dripping with untamed sarcasm.

"Dave, everything was fine but...argh, dammit!"

"No, Celeste, really, what you did is great. Remind me to kiss Rebecca the next time I see her around," he remarks dryly, using his ex-wife as an item of example to mock my actions. "Or wait, will that be enough, or should I go ahead and repeat the whole let's-have-babies process--"

"Dave, c'mon!" I whine, "I accept what I did is wrong. Please don't−"

"Wrong? Really, Celeste? I call that plain stupid. Like, seriously, of all things you could do to tell him no, you kissed him. Ever heard of anything more stupid than that?"

I chew on my bottom lip, my eyes narrowing to slits in distaste. A call that I had assumed would yield comfort was instead yielding sermons reprimanding my actions. How thrilling is that? Dave, catching my silence to be a result of displeasure from being told off, sighs over the line, "I'm sorry you had to go through all of this by yourself." I imagine him shaking his head in ruth at this point, "I'll cancel the deal if you want."

Oh? So he isn't going to sentence me to death for my boneheaded actions?

"Are you mad? No!" I yell, sliding into his wavelength and effortlessly becoming a part of it, all the while pretending that I really haven't done anything wrong. "He'd only think I'm afraid of him." I object. I refuse to back out now. I've come so far, the least I can do is put a big, fat full stop to it; for once, and for all.

"Well, then remind yourself that I'm just trying to keep you motivated."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," I hear him shifting on the other side of the line. "What I mean to say is that in case you ever wonder why your sweet-as-sugar old man would do a thing such as give your number off to a client, who also happens to be your ex-fiancée, just remind yourself that it was a pure-intentioned attempt at keeping you motivated." his words sink in, and so does my heart, to the bottomless pit of agony that it seems to love so much.

So this is how the 'sweet-as-sugar old man' chooses to get back at me for my impulsive actions?

"Dave!" I scream, tugging my blonde strands in frustration. If I were to continue pulling my hair at this pace, I'm sure I'll earn myself a bald head before I even make it to thirty of age. "I need motivation, not chances to royally fuck things up."

Just look at the ironic turn of events, will you? Less than four days ago, all I had wanted to do was royally fuck things up. Yet, now, I don't want myself or anyone doing anything of that sort. Bravo, Celeste, keep up the indecisive nature.

"Just a heads-up, he said he'll leave in an hour and he's most probably coming alone."

I shake my head, hopeless. "Thanks, Dave," I mutter. Nobody will understand what I am currently feeling unless they, too, are forced to plan their ex-fiancée's wedding. Add to it a small, secretive fact that the planner is still not over her client, and woah, you're in for a super melodramatic show.

"Take care kid and lemme know if there's anything I can do." he offers shamelessly.

I ponder over his suggestion. Maybe I can use this one to my benefit.

"Don't let him get even an air of Zephrine, please." I make a serious request. I really don't want to wake up to Dave's call tomorrow morning and hear him tell me in a fancy tone how Elliot had asked where and how he could reach out to Zephrine, and the former had foolishly told him everything. I'll win myself a free ticket to Hell for murdering Elliot, were he to do anything to her, and of course, he will be succeeded by Dave who I'll murder next for giving away that sacred bit of information.

All such dangerous thoughts, though, evaporate into thin air as and when I hear the smile in his voice, "I can do that."

"Fine," I say, "By−"

"Hold up!"

I frown. Why does Dave love me so much that he feels the need to talk to me for hours together even on his holiday? "What is it?" I ask nonetheless.

"Okay, I don't know whether or not you're born with the talent of appreciating my observations," he says, and there's a hint of mirth and excitement in his voice, and my frown deepens. What is this new observation of his? That Elliot's new bride is a crab, huh? "But kid, your ex-fiancée thinks so deeply. I mean, you should've heard the way he was talking about what plans he has for his wife, and he even discussed with me how he would like for us to plan his honeymoon if our−"

Oh trust me, many aspects of him are deeper than his thoughts; double meaning intended.

"I do not appreciate your observations." I interrupt his self-proclaimed speech on behalf of Elliot, my face contorting in disgust. Although there's a voice inside me that tells me that Dave and Elliot have spoken about nothing as such, he most certainly does not have the right to sprinkle salt, or pepper, or chili powder, or any other powdered spice over my unhealed wound. "Bye," I hang up, irritated.

Having lost my appetite already, I dispose of the remaining pasta back into the pot in which I'd cooked it, and wash my hands. So much for cooking a pot full of vegetable pasta, and having my mood spoiled at the reminder of a pit of darkness, and thus, not eating it with as much enthusiasm as I had cooked it with.

"Jael, I'm going to pick up Zeph," I yell at the anti-social female sitting in the room adjacent to the hall. I feel the need to yell because the volume at which some high-note pop song is playing in her room is loud enough for any stranger passing by to mistake our apartment to be a day-club. It didn't even surprise me the day, a few months ago, a couple rang our bell asking for the address of the house-club they were sure this apartment building housed.

"Alright, bye!" she yells back in response.

Jael is a very funny creature, you see, and I'm not even lying.

Every time she has an argument with her boyfriend, instead of wetting her pillow with tears like the other girls, she turns the whole house into a miniature disco room. Yes, extremely loud music, bottles of vodka, undomesticated laughs, and uncontrollable dancing are the aftermaths of a pitiable argument. Not quite as entertaining a sight as it seems, if you ask me. When I would ask her why she would do a thing as such, then despite being drunk, her freckled face would go all sage-like and in a highly modified voice, she would say, "Music can literally patch the holes in my broken heart."

The extent to which she would be drunk can easily be recognized if one pays close attention to the aforementioned statement. Her heart was broken, and not holed, so music obviously couldn't patch the 'holes' in her heart. Still, I wouldn't stop her from creating a bigger ruckus that she already was making. I didn't know what having an argument with my boyfriend felt like, because El was the only one I ever dated, and we never fought- and I mean never. Things had always been peaceful between, around, and within us.

...until three days after Zephrine's birth, when I awoke to find him gone. My first guess, of course, was that he'd gone to get me coffee and cinnamon rolls from my favorite cafe, but as time passed, first minutes, then hours, then days, and then months, I knew he was gone, and that neither he, not the cinnamon rolls were ever coming home.

I filed FIRs, put up LOST BUT NEVER FOUND ads, asked his friends, his schoolmates, his neighbors, the children of the orphanage he used to pay weekly visits to, the inmates of this new society where we'd bought our very own apartment with the money that my mom left me at the time of her death, but no one seemed even ten percent as bothered as I was. They all seemed to give me the same pathetic advice: It's okay. Forget and move on.

I had, and yet to this day have no clue what about me had forced him to take such a huge step; though I don't think I ever will. Unless he decides to tell me, that is.

My heart churns at the reminder, its actions leaving in their wake a throbbing pain within my chest. Oh, El, why did you do what you did? We could've had a really happy happily-ever-after, you know?

All his stuff- books, clothes, footballs, his guitar and piano, the sneakers he'd almost bled his pockets dry to buy, his hair-gels, his watches, every tiny thing that he once touched, or once belonged to him, is still here, in the corner-most room of this cozy apartment. And when I turn towards the door of the said room, my eyes glazing with moisture in longingness, I can't help but sigh at the turn of events.

I ponder over the madness and wickedness of life, how one fine spring day, I was but laughing and smiling in the presence of everything I could ever wish for, and how just the very next day, when flood-loaded clouds wrapped the sky in their gloom, and fate snatched from me my everything, leaving me this very shelter for my bodily protection, but stole from me the person who had sheltered my soul since long, and I lost that particular everything I held dear to my soul and existence. And then I ponder over how, almost an eternity later, my everything returned, looking all mature and manly; yet this time, he has someone else to be his everything.

I turn away, reminding myself that over a month has passed since that room was last cleaned, and that I better get it cleaned before spiders and lizards start creeping from under the wooden door and into the rest of the house. That room, you see, is unlocked only for the purpose of cleaning, and because I have never found the strength, courage, and will in me to enter, clean, and exit it without turning my eyes into puddles of saltwater, Jael herself takes up the task.

Which brings me back to Jael and her craziness.

More often than not, Zephrine drags me to her pigsty so we all can dance together, but how unlucky must they both consider themselves that seldom do I not start cussing Jael for keeping her room like that and end up cleaning it. What shame today seems to be one of those days.

"And reduce the bloody volume! The ceiling's threatening to fly off!" I scream moodily at my nineteen-year-old music-obsessed sister. She is supposed to be studying now, because that is what her parents (my maternal aunt and her husband) have left her here for. But when I say that studying is something she can't care the least about right now, one has to believe me. Her to-do list has always comprised of:

1. Eat.
2. Listen to music.
3. Eat again.
4. Listen to music again.
5. Argue with Celeste because I have too much of an ego to shut my mouth and reduce the volume.
6. Argue some more.
7. Hypnotize Zeph so at least she could be on my team.
8. Victory dances with Zeph 'cause we won against that goddamn dictator-like sister.
9. Eat again.
10. Lapse into hibernation.

That's all she does during the course of the day, every day.

"Does it look like I care?" she screams back.

I shake my head in dismay. This girl will never change. Getting ready to go pick Zephrine from her school, I pull a peach coat over my shoulders and begin my stroll towards the approximately two-kilometer away school, Elliot consuming most of the space in my mind the entire way.

He had asked me to help him with ideas of how he should propose to his−
It shouldn't bother me, right? After all, it has been nine years since I'd last seen him, and nine whole years since I'd last been involved in any romantic relationship. But guess what? It does; a lot, actually. And regardless of whether or not I like the meaning it opens up to, it implies that my feelings haven't subsided./Someone, please kill me for that.

My instincts tell me that the way he has re-entered my life is no daily coincidence. Because if that had to be the case, then despite knowing that it is me being targeted, he wouldn't have chosen our firm; he wouldn't have chosen me to be the victim of his impotent requests, and he wouldn't have made sure I wouldn't back out. Something will happen. Something that didn't-- or perhaps, couldn't, nine years ago. I, however, am not so sure I want to believe it.

I soon reach Zephrine's school, and when the girl to aid whose survival I am existing despite the many reasons I have to give up on everything, exits the school gates, my heart flushes with pride.

It is my self-created hypothesis that in every life that exists, there exists a particular person who will always be placed countless notches higher than the others, perhaps even before the person itself. And for me, that particular person is my beloved ray of sunshine, my little doll, my most-favorite human-- my daughter, Zephrine Wilson.

She rushes into my arms as soon as she catches sight of her mother. "Mom!"

"Hey, little one," I chuckle, shifting her backpack to my shoulders as she pulls away. "How was your day?"

She casts me a shy smile. "It was nice..."

Well, good thing at least somebody found it nice.

"Did you show your math assignment to your teacher?"

She giggles, the merry sound making my heart jump in content, before she begins enlightening me of her teacher's opinion. "She took it saying it was good but she knew it was you who did it, not me."

Like most children these days, Zeph hates math; literally abhorres any number-related content. And because I am a very nice mom, I sometimes− okay, always− do her math assignments. It isn't much of a headache, though, you see, because I love the subject. Maybe it's a pity that unlike her mum, she never managed to inculcate the same, distinct interest in the subject. Or maybe not, because, again, I really can't bring myself to bewail the absence of similarity in this regard. She has common sense: a practical judging criterion that most people, even boys adopted by rich parents, who have left their fiancées in the middle of nowhere and gone continents away to experience luxury in this topsy-turvy world seem to have no awareness about, and that is much more than enough for me.

"Smart teacher, don't you think?"

I bite my lip as she smiles, her head bobbing to and fro in agreement. It is her for whom I cling onto dear life; so I can give her the life I never got. Then her eyes suddenly widen with eagerness, as if it is now that she is recollecting something she was supposed to have mentioned ere long. "You know what happened today?"

I hold her frail hand as we cross the road. "Not until you tell me."

"The teacher told me that my comprehension was the best!"

I give her a genuine smile. "Oh wow, that's great."

This girl skipping beside me now, folks, is the other member of the small family that we've carved out of our existence together; myself as her mother, and her as my daughter. She has added so many colors of love, happiness, thrill to my life that I never felt the need to accommodate anyone else in our small world. Still, just in case of boredom decides to show up, we have Jael: the everlasting source of live entertainment.

"Do you know whose was second best?" she asks, her eyes shining brighter than a thousand suns. Unbearably cheesy as it may sound, there is a peculiar feeling that clogs my sanity every time I discern the gleam in her brilliant blue eyes when she speaks to me.

Now, Jael is a hopelessly jealous human, alright, and given her disposition of nature, she has tried more than a million number of times to try and say something that will draw from Zephrine's eyes the same brightness that 'blinds' her eyes when Zephrine speaks to me, when she would speak to the little girl- only to fail every single time. I guess it is one of the many other perks of being a mother.

"Mason?" I provide.

"Yas!" she skips, her fingers clamping tightly over mine.

"That's nice!"

As Zephrine and I walk a little further, then enter our- or rather, her favorite confectionery, she continues to pour out to me in detail whatever has happened during the time she and I were away from each other. It has become a routine for me since she'd been put to school, to buy her this large chocolate chip cookie that she loves so dearly, every day after school. I don't understand her obsession with the elements of chocolate, or with anything that has chocolate in it, for that matter, but then again, my understanding remains opaque towards her ludicrous devotion to washing, drying, and then ironing, her little Barbie dolls' dresses as well.

We leave the shop after buying the same even today.

"Oh, mommy," she says, looking at me in an earnest manner as she struggles to balance the large chunk of cookie in her mouth while she speaks. "You know who told me that I looked pretty in this yellow frock today?"

Like mother, like daughter. Isn't that too ditto a phrase to mention? But oh well, Zephrine loves compliments. That explains a lot why every day, she summarises to me a list of good things that have happened to her during the time I am not with her, right after school, leaving the bad ones for bedtime.

"Mason?" I supply with a lopsided grin. Mason has been, and there's no denying this, Zephrine's crush since God knows when and the cutest and most innocent part of it all is that she doesn't even know the meaning of 'crush'.

"Nope, Aric!"

In a matter of just one damn second, the bloody race in my veins is brought to a sudden halt, the blood pumping organ itself stopping amidst its beats to try and analyze the statement Zephrine just stated out loud. Has Elliot reached her already?

"Aric who...?" my voice is a mere whisper, one I highly doubt my nine-year-old hears as I contemplate if there is any good in asking her the question. What if it isn't him she's talking about? She won't stop questioning why I am giving this topic of a person such third-degree burns with my quizzes, unless and until I end up telling her a tale that her innocent mind, and fragile heart will not be able to bear. Besides, this might as well be the hundredth time that she is mentioning a boy called Aric, who she claims is her best friend. Pretty sure more than just one person is named Aric on this planet, Celeste, my mind consoles me, trying not to let me hype so much over nothing.

"Huh?" her eyebrows shoot upwards in curiosity, her sparkling eyes observing me.

"Nothing." I smile at her. "So you were telling me−" and then I am interrupted by the buzzing of my phone. I extract it from my pocket, finding the screen flashing with an incoming call from an unknown number.

Think about the devil, and the devil appears.

Nervousness wraps me in an embrace, the creases in my palms instantly filling up with moisture as I swipe across the screen, picking the call after five rings.

Don't talk about the kiss. Don't take about the kiss. Please don't talk about−

"You must learn to answer calls more efficiently, Ms. Wilson. Not all your clients have all day," his deep voice pierces through my ears, effectively blocking out any internal conversations. Though, me being- well, me, I manage to send a quick vote of appreciation to the Deity above for not allowing a certain kiss to become a part of this already distasteful conversation.

Stupid woman. You were praying as if he was going to scream "KISS!" the moment you'd pick the call, the voice inside my head speaks, rolling its eyes at my behavior.

Ignoring it, I pay heed to what he just said, and the first and the only thing I see in his words and tone is a mountain of attitude. Oh, you contemptible excuse of a human being, wait till I show you my Jupiter-sized one.

"And you must learn to keep your teachings to yourself." I hmph. Zeph turns towards me, her eyes filled with curiosity as to what could be the cause of such drastic a change in her easy-going mother's avatar. "In case you've forgotten, I have a life apart from just answering calls. Don't expect me to be available to Your Majesty even during break hours." I pass out, irked, purposely leaving out the fact that I am picking my daughter from school.

"Best if you free yourself soon, then," he says smoothly, "I'll be picking you in exactly twenty minutes."

So we can have a nice chat about the unfortunate kiss we shared three nights ago? Ah, you wish! No way I am going anywhere with you. Alone, at that. I've already done one mistake, can't afford to carry the burden of another.

I want to scream the aforementioned right in his face, bonusing it with much more blather, but acting on instinct, the first thing that escapes my mouth is a curse; a half curse, actually, seeing as the boy won't even give me the liberty of expressing my negative emotions. "What the−" he hangs up, leaving me alone to grit my teeth in annoyance at having failed to complete even a goddamn curse. Such a doorknob.

"Hell?" Zephrine teasingly smirks at me, completing the part I'd left unsaid.

I roll my eyes, smiling at her. "Seriously."

Twenty minutes. He's coming to pick me in twenty minutes. I won't go; I agreed to plan his marriage, not do everything he orders me to. He isn't the boss of me. But then again, it's Elliot we're talking about, alright; that particular dude who makes sure he gets everything he lays his eyes upon, and if, given my reluctance to comply, he decides to stoop to a level where he'd have to force me into working, I don't think he will hesitate from doing so.

I better go, I decide, only now recalling how he had wanted me to help him with the bloody basket of a proposal. Stand a kilometer away and direct him, then return home and help Jael patch up with her boyfriend, and after that, spend the remaining time with darling Zephrine, my brain inscribes me a tolerable schedule. Yes, this sounds somewhat fine.

"Who was it, Mommy?" Zephrine asks, her eyebrows furrowing in concern as the smirk that previously graced her features erases itself into her skin.

Choosing to let my daughter know him by the name everybody apart from me seems to know him by, "Aric," I finally tell her. "A friend," I add a lie before she gets the chance to interrogate me further. Friend my foot!

"Is he the same one as my friend?"

"Nah." I wave my hand dismissively, "Your friend's nice and small. This one's new around here." I lie again.

We invest around ten more minutes of our time in a random but sweet conversation, and then reach home. Having six more minutes before Elliot can arrive and remind me why I have come to hate my life so much in the past week, I set a plate of reheated pasta for Zeph on the table just as she trudges back into the dining hall after washing her hands.

"We'll watch a movie if you finish your homework before I return." I propose. Lately, this has been the only way to get her to finish her homework.

Excitement shines brightly in her eyes. "Which one?"

"Madagascar?" I supply my personal favorite, squinting.

"Even Brianna and Aric like that!" she recalls gleefully. "Mason likes Incredibles 2, just like me," she adds with a pleased giggle, taking a seat at the end of the table.

Perhaps Zephrine's getting a substitute in this matter, after all; Aric: substitute to Mason and Crush 2.0.

"Okay, Incredibles 2 it is." I kiss the tip of her nose. I shall watch the movie over a million times if that is what she wants. "Mum's gotta go to work now."

She pouts. "Can I go play with Brianna after lunch?"

"No."

"Pretty please."

"No, Zephrine, you won't finish your homework."

"Mommy, please. I promise I'll do as soon as I'm back."

"And when will you be back?"

"Six o'clock?"

"Zephrine."

"Okay, okay. Five-thirty."

"Four-thirty."

"Mommy," she frowns, giving me those irresistible puppy eyes that she has yet to know my heart is a sucker for. "Final: five."

I press my lips in a thin line. Can't believe this is happening again! "Okay, fine, but don't ask Mrs. Glenn for too many cookies."

She shakes her head at me, both her ponytails moving with the motion. "It's Brianna who eats four, I swear! I always eat only two."

Yeah, right. Zephrine had told me the same last time as well, after Mrs. Glenn had called me up and told me with a merry laugh how her daughter and Zephrine were supposed to be born in the household of confectionery owners. "Just don't stay long. Come back and finish with your homework before I come. Ask Jael to help you if you want anything."

She nods. "Mummy," I just start to move away when she tugs me back to her and places her pouting lips over my cheek, her voice soft and silvery as she says, "I love you very much."

Just so I can have a better look at her beautiful features, I lean away and stare at her cute smile, wondering what good I have done to have her as my daughter; and also what I would do if she wasn't a part of my small world. Surely, without her, I am nothing but a defunct figure. "Mummy loves you too, baby," I whisper, gently tucking a few stray strands behind her ear. Her smile turns broader, brighter, happier, her pretty little soul elated by the revelation that her mom hasn't stopped loving her yet. Little does she know that I will never stop loving her, no matter what happens.

When I realize that I'm running late, I pry my eyes from her face and walk towards Jael's room. "Jael, I'm leaving- got some work to do! Take care of Zephrine!" I yell at her once again, silently cursing work and its cons. Seriously, why does it have to be so inevitable? Especially in situations where compassionate people like me have to leave exuberant daughters like Zephrine and work for dominating people like Elliot. If only I could flush him and his life and his to-be-wife down the culvert.

She asks Zephrine to go into her room once she's all cleaned up, and then tells me to enjoy work. "Yeah, in my nightmares," I mumble, rolling my eyes and walking out of the main door. I catch sight of Zephrine grinning all the way from East to West, waving me bye, and I return her gesture before trudging down the lift and towards the main gate where the person who once was the protagonist of my story is now its antagonist will arrive anytime soon.

Ah, if only time could do me some mercy.

••••

So, what are your theories about Zephrine and her relation with Elliot? Widen your horizon, don't stick to the cliche ideas. Also, just cause Celeste is careless enough to waste food, you shouldn't, too. People are starving all over the globe, let's show them a lil concern.
*Update on 26th Oct while editing: I changed the aforementioned part where she had thrown the pasta away, and now she puts the remaining pasta in the pot and not the dustbin. I didn't like the idea of showing through my works that it's okay to waste food. Books are quite an influence, you see, especially on the youth, so it's important we use this weapon with wisdom and caution. :)

How do you think it's going so far?
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