"Michael?" His mother's voice insisted on continuing their candid conversation.

He hated the idea, so he took a leaf from Don's book and got up. Dull ache that enveloped his foot all the way to the ankle, reminded him about his perfect excuse. "I'm going to the front desk to sign up for physiotherapy tomorrow. Chad said it fills up fast."

"Sit down," his mother commanded softly. "You don't want to talk about this marvelous Daya. Very well. Let's talk about something else."

Reality split into two planes of existence.

In one of them Mike froze thinking, this is a bad idea, a patently bad idea, then made a lurching run out of the doors.

In the second one, he dropped into a (surprisingly not bamboo) chair like a trained lab retriever. He remembered his earlier intent to have a heart-to-heart talk... now he was not so sure he wanted it. It implied a give and take, and he wasn't prepared to bare his soul just yet.

"Michael, I am worried. You're repeating the same mistake I had made with Lloyd. I loved him too much."

He startled. "Really. You loved father too much."

She called the waiter to refill her wineglass.

While the red liquid splashed against the crystal walls, Mike struggled to remain silent. Accusations crowded his chest. Finally, when he had her attention again, it exploded out of him.

"If you did not nag him for twenty years to get into shape, he might still be alive."

Then he would not have found dad on the floor, ashen. Would not have ridden in an ambulance watching the electronic dials and trying to guess what they meant. Would not have prayed for a miracle for thirty-eight hours, until his father passed away without regaining consciousness.

He stared at the empty glass in his hand. A bit of the green goo still clung to the bottom, but he drained most of it. He could still taste it on his lips, but his throat remained parched.

"Your Hamletian act is misplaced, my darling." She drank, then looked back at him.

"The doctor told me that an abrupt change in lifestyle, that late in life, might have contributed to his stroke," Mike said listlessly.

"I divorced Lloyd years ago. His obsession with running marathons had nothing to do with me."

A blush raised in her cheeks, hot enough to be evident through the layer of make-up. It made her look like an old woman.

"Even when we were still married, all I wanted was for him to cut down on greasy food he gorged on during the all-nighters. Any decent woman would do the same if she doesn't want to be a widow at forty."

"And look how well that worked out!" he said, before cutting himself off. They were starting to circle in their argument like two teens on a gaming forum.

"Don't shift the responsibility for your father's stupidity on me."

"I'm sorry." There was nothing to be gained by saying anything else. Thinking was more fruitful. The lady doth protest too much...

The problem was that he had no way of discovering if she had intentionally rubbed his dad's nose in her ageless appearance at that charity event or not. All Mike knew was that after they had run into each-other after years of careful avoidance, his workaholic dad had added a fitness regimen worthy of an Olympian to his already overloaded schedule.

Perhaps she had stumbled on a trigger word that got to him or her needling accumulated over the years. Perhaps seeing her was enough of a straw to break the camel's back.

But it was equally possible that his father's obsession had nothing to do with her.

Juliana took restorative mini-sips, obviously intent on nursing this glass for the next hour. "I understood it when you took time off from your thesis after Lloyd had died. But quitting entirely? Taking an entry-level job in the cow-town? Michael, if it's Lloyd's voice in your head, shut it off. It's poison."

The student counselor also didn't understand why he had left the PhD program. On the surface, his diligence covered up for his shortcomings. He had no desire to self-flagellate then; he didn't have it now. "My quitting the PhD had nothing to do with Dad. Taking time off helped put a few things in perspective, that's all. I was never academic material."

Empty house, lawyers, funerals, lawyers, bills... a million reminders on his cell phone per day that he had been insulated from reality. Unlike his peers, he had never published a serious paper, just conference proceedings and abstracts. He had done plenty of studying... and not much else.

"I had to find something I could do, and I did. I'm content with working in the library."

"Content..." She echoed him and pursed her lips. "The talent will out. If you're unsuccessful, look in the mirror, face up the truth. There is no shame in being mediocre..."

The tired tone of a sage, the hooded eyes, the suave smile—they were all his father's, imitated with a cutting precision. "Why did you think I became a stewardess, darling?"

"A flight attendant," Mike corrected automatically.

"Same difference. When Lloyd's career took off, and he became a name in Hollywood, I thought my success wouldn't be far behind. That he will introduce me to the right people in the industry. Drop my name. Call in favors... help me. But it didn't happen."

"In fact, he seemed happier when I took the airline job than when I auditioned. It gave him peace of mind to see me in my proper place. Lloyd had a bright talent himself, and in his heart of hearts I don't think he believed that those with less ability deserved lucky breaks or could compensate for their shortcomings by efforts."

Grinding, they call it grinding in video games. People who were not among the top five percent of the players who could do the most challenging content, spent hours repeating the easier quests for a fraction of the reward. The total was the same, but the effort expended, the time to reach the goal... incomparable.

Some elite players loved to carry, others hated the noobs and complained incessantly that the games were dumbed down because of them. They also loved to dispense uncharitable just quit, this game is not for morons advice on-line.

"Dad never told me I should quit," Mike said weakly. "Or that I was a moron. He was complimentary."

"Oh, he'd never insult anyone to their face. He confided his general observations on art until his musings followed you like suffocating clouds. He'd hum, and dive back into his work to secure another contract, win another award and bring it up whenever you hit the rock-bottom. Eventually I woke up and understood how his sermons stole wind from my sails."

How could there still be any wine left in her glass?

"The funniest thing? Lloyd had never considered the possibility that I might leave him. How could I? I was a pretty face who caught a firebird when she went hunting for a partridge."

She patted Mike on the knee, as if they had chatted about the weather. "Don't repeat my mistakes, don't sell yourself short. Don't settle. Now, go and book your physiotherapy. That foot needs TLC."

He stood up like a robot and limped to the reception. Chad manned the counter, and he gave Mike a solicitous smile, "You look a bit weary, Mr. Wilson. Is our humidity making your injury act out?"

His foot ached more than ever. With a painful grimace, he booked himself into two physio sessions, a guided class and something else Chad insisted on, a relaxation massage...

He returned to the cabin, propped his foot on a cushion, propped Japan, to Modernity on another one, opened it and thought about his mother's odd pep talk. She had never accused his dad of intellectual snobbery before.

It was easy to figure out why: while dad was alive, she would not risk a hint of unhappiness to reach his ears. Whatever either of them said, he always sensed competition between his parents after divorce.

But was it this competition that killed dad? Did he want the ultimate victory, outliving his ex-wife, when he embarked on his ill-fated quest for health.

Mike sighed so deeply that it sent the book to the floor. He left it there and closed his eyes. One thing for sure, he needed to partake of the chocolate-cherry goodness. Maybe he could bribe Chad to smuggle Black Forest to this land of roasted seaweed and avocados... 

One slice would go a long way to restoring his inner peace. Two slices—and he might reach nirvana despite the elastic band in his pocket.

If he could only smuggle Daya here too and make her understand about the chocolate. How many days until he would see her again?

One, two, three... many. Too many...