I sat down in a booth next to the windows. She had already informed me that she was running late. A cute waitress came up to me and asked me if I'd like to order anything. She couldn't have been a day over 21. Cute as a button. "Coffee", I said, "black, no sugar". I pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "There's no smoking here", I heard from way in the back. "Yeah, well, now there is", I responded. Everyone stared angrily at me. I smiled back. I enjoyed an upset crowd. I always had. When other kids would be yelled at by their parents, cry and piss their pants, I'd smile at mine, even laugh. It was worth it. Every slap across the face, every whipping, every drink poured at me, every "fuck", "shit" and "asshole" yelled in my face, as the spit washed over me, all worth it. But that's besides the point. The waitress came back. Strong, black coffee. No sugar. "Good job", I thought. I can't tell you how many times waitresses have screwed up such a simple thing as an order of plain, black coffee. But I don't blame them. Sure, it bothers me, but if there's one thing my daddy taught me, it's to pick my battles. No point in yelling at a waitress for a messed up order. I stared out the rather dusty window as the sun hung low in the sky, as the people walked to and fro, as it were. Cars hover past like specters of capitalism. I put the cigarette to my mouth and inhale death as the proverbial suicidal man pulls the trigger, only, mine's slower. And wonderful. I could spend the entire afternoon sitting here, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, watching all these miserable lost souls pass me by, if I didn't have places to be, people to meet. I began to wonder where she was, but I couldn't bother getting up, stepping outside and calling her. She'll be here, or she won't. That's all there is to it. We worry so much over so many arbitrary possibilities. I couldn't help but wonder what it said about me, that I worry that people worry too much. I heard the front door open behind me, and someone walking in. I turned my head around and there she was. "Over here!", I signaled her toward my booth. She turned her head and noticed me. She was wearing a thick jacket and a fur cap. You could tell by just looking at her that summer was nothing but a distant memory these days. It's strange how every summer it feels like winter will never come back, and how every winter, summer will never come back. She sat down. "Hey, there's no smoking here.", she reminded me. "On the contrary, obviously", I replied. She looked at me like she'd never looked at me before. "What's the matter?". "It's bad.". "What is?". "Daddy's not well. It's real bad. The nurses found him earlier today walking around aimlessly, rambling incoherently. He had also shat the bed and pissed his pants. And slippers. And the on the floor and in the armchair next to the bed. They gave him a sedative and he calmed down and they transferred him to another room. When I got to the hospital I went in to talk to him, but it was as if he couldn't hear me. He just mumbled unintelligibly. He didn't even look at me. He just looked up at the ceiling, looking like he was about to fall asleep from all the sedatives. They are investigating the possibility that he had a stroke." "Shit..." I said somberly, almost whispering, looked down at the coffee. "I mean I knew the old man has had it rough lately, but not this bad..." "Yeah... I know, it's okay. He's better now", "Well that's good. I guess sunshine does come after rain." "Yeah, it does, doesn't it!". The cute little waitress came by our table again and asked how she could help us. I asked for a refill, and she took off like an arrow, jolting back to me with the coffee. She had me worried she was gonna spill the coffee over us. But she didn't. "Good job", I thought again. She handed me the coffee and went on her way. I handed her my pack, asking her if she wanted one. "There's. No. Smoking. Here.". "Oh fuck rules! Rules ain't nothing but made up bullshit!". "Yeah well in a restaurant you follow the restaurant's made up bullshit, got it?!". "Correction: YOU follow the made up bullshit. I don't". "Ugh...", she sighed. She stared out the window as I had stared out earlier. She looked burdened. I asked what's wrong, besides dad. She didn't answer me. She did however reach for the cigarettes and put one between her lips, and "pulled the trigger". She looked so sad, staring out the window, holding the burning cigarette between her fingers. I asked her if she's all right. No response, again. She hollered at the waitress. "Yes? Would you like to order?". "You serve beer, right?". "We do!", she responded in an unnecessarily high-pitched, happy voice. "Then gimme that.". "Right away, ma'am!". She came back with an ice cold beer that, unlike most beers restaurants serve, didn't taste like piss diluted with water. I knew because I took it from her to sample it before she could even have a sip, because I'm an asshole like that. I put the beer back and she picked it up and chugged the whole thing. "Fuck!", I exclaimed. "I've never seen you do that before!". No answer. I got fed up with her attitude. "You mind telling me why the fuck you call me to immediately meet me here, run late, and then say nothing at all?! I mean you don't even answer me when I talk to you!". She broke down in tears, head against the table, hands covering her shame. I got up and sat down next to her. "Hey, hey, hey... What's the matter?". She cried hysterically. It was as if she had finally understood something. I asked, "What's wrong, what's wrong?". She cried, and cried, and cried. I just sat there, holding here, speaking comforting words. I ordered her another beer. The waitress came around with it quicker than I could spell out my name. She took it, chugged half, and gave the rest to me, asking me to drink it. "O... Okay...", I answered stuttering. The beer went down with ease. I sure love me a good beer, nice and frosty. She appeared to be coming back to her senses, but still crying a little bit. As she got up I noticed that the mascara had run down her face, like blood running out an open wound. She gestured toward the women's room, trying to talk, but it didn't come out well enough to tell what she tried to say, what with the crying and all. She went and wiped of her face and blew her nose loud enough to tear down a house or make a kid permanently deaf. She came back looking much better than before. Her nose and cheeks were still red, her eyes were still watery and pink, but at least she washed the make up off her face. She came back to our booth, and just stood next to me. I pointed toward the booth, but she shook her head, and opened her arms. I got up. She hugged me. I didn't know what to do, I was never good with physical contact. I patted her on the back, which immediately felt wrong, but "Hey", I thought, "At least it's better than nothing at all... I think.". She leaned on my shoulder and started to sob uncontrollably again. I asked her if she wanted to leave. She nodded. I threw a fifty on the table and gave thanks to the kind waitress. I lit another cigarette. We walked down the windy street. We stopped every now and then and she cried a little. When we had gotten to the end off the street we decided to walk to the beach, even though it was freezing. She held my hand the whole walk, squeezing it tightly, as if she feared that she’d lose me if she didn’t. We just stood there, looking at the ocean. Rising up, rising down. Like the sun does. Like we all do. She walked forward and put herself in front of me. She just looked into my eyes for the longest time. I had a look on my face that asked, "What's wrong?". And she knew I did. She cried again, this time leaning into my chest. I hugged her to keep her warm and comforted. After about five minutes she got ahold of herself and stopped crying. She took a step back, and looked straight into my eyes. Into me. And she said:

"Dad didn't make it.".