‘Are you bargaining with at me as your mum’s proxy?’ No one gets more intelligent overnight. ‘This isn’t stage 3. We got a consensus. We accepted the facts.’ My head is going to hurt. ‘Don’t you want to see your parents, like I don’t know, pay your respect as a family?’ This lady and the things she does to me, I could only sigh. ‘If one is six feet under and you placed him there, is there any respect left to be paid?’ I looked at her straight in the eyes. I was being serious. I needed her to clearly see that.

There are 5 stages of grief. A psychological model by Dr Elisabeth Kubler Ross. Someone with a post-doctoral, a lady that has honorary degrees. I like to place emphasis on the ‘s’ in her degrees. Instead of seeing a proper old shrink or calling an anonymous hotline, I sit here. A took a quick glance at the white face of the sole clock in Café Le Beau. I sit here watching the gears of this goldfish turn and turn for the past 45 minutes. I am indeed a lady who has nothing better to do. Curses be upon whoever that made the financial market absolutely non-profitable in the late afternoon. The bigger question in all of this, why haven’t I left her in her thoughts.

Instead of questioning, I’m back to watching her micro-expressions. I want to understand this lady. I need to understand why I want to understand. In these weeks, I am worried about my wants to know more about her.  ‘My dad passed on, your mum’s words about a parent’s love, I believe in her.’ A small voice speaks. My mind needs a kit kat, so I stood up. ‘If it was a happy memory, if my mother’s words gave you strength, then don’t let reality taint it. I got to smoke.’ I finally left her in her thoughts.

Fishing for my lighter, I lit a good ol stick. Looking at the people passing by, the cars speeding off, and the world simply spinning with time, I wondered If I had used my left instead of my right, will I indeed have my parent’s love? If holding a knife at that age was unintentional, then why did I hold it in my dominant hand? So as to not lose my grip? Was I the hero in my own narrative? Just who was the villain in all this?

I looked at the ground where the ashes had laid. Was that scene a cause of chaos or did the devil within cease the opportunity to create havoc and got away? My mother took the stand as a defendant's witness. Accounted that I was reckless, that I couldn’t know better. That she should have been better. Concluded with if only she knew better. The aunt who once showered me with kisses and cooed on how I’m daddy’s girls, eyes now darken. Lashing out with fingers pointing, calling me the 2^nd coming, curses and swear painfully spewed with my name. She was in great grief. Her gentle oppa now being slandered by his child and wife. Painted to be a monster once intoxicated. Losing his masculinity with his balls nipped at the foreclosure of his factory. The pains of a financial meltdown and a commoner’s fall to hell.

The apple never fell far. I am still his daughter. Intoxicated or not, the little devil was released and shredded my black box. All the fancy terms. All the legal quotes, that final hammer of the judge, the cries that were wept, so what. What respect is there? What love is left? I am just a coward breathing because I’m too scared to do anything on purpose. I felt a hand gently laid rest at my shoulder.

I turn to stare at her. ‘I just wanted to be like him. To protect his lady that I love too.’ I said. I weakly smiled at her. Her eyes are watery. So, we stood by the sidewalk at an arm’s length apart, looking at each other. Neither of us making a move. The air was just heavy. I stubbed out my cigarette. Picked it up and looked at her. She holds my gaze. I took a step and closed our gap. She doesn’t move. Barely a flinch. ‘Send me your nudes because I don’t want to reach acceptance with your push.’  With that, I slipped past her. Leaving her by the door of Café Le Beau.