SCENE 3: Our heroine bonds poignantly with her father.
dad and i sit on plastic chairs in the living room of his new apartment. this is right after the divorce and he’s been sort of depressed and therefore unable to procure furniture, wash dishes, or wear matching clothes. i am staying with him to remedy these issues. it’s august and the air conditioner’s broken so we are taking turns fanning each other with a piece of cardboard. we’re drinking smirnoff ice. we’re talking about life and shit — literal shit: his cat is old and has dysentery or something. the box from last night’s pizza lays open on the particle board and cinder blocks he’s using as a coffee table. soon, there will be ants, but for now it’s just me and my dad, talking about life. all of my father’s possessions, hurriedly packed in crates and sagging boxes, surround us. it is tragic to see all of these things displaced — these pictures, trinkets, and books that have been on other walls and other shelves ever since i can remember.
the cat shits on the bedroom carpet, loudly. my dad stops fanning and looks me in the eye. “someday,” he says, gesturing grandly at the room and everything in it, “all this will be yours.”