Talking’s not a cure?
Daddy, will you please stop? I resent you bringing your psychiatrist friend around to take a look at me.
AT A STARBUCKS IN LAGUNA BY ROBERT EARLE 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 07
The father and the daughter, Kyle and Fawn, resemble one another. Their sloping foreheads give them a windblown look even in repose, uniting them in vigilance.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Nice to see you, too, Fawn,” he says. “Herb and I stopped for coffee. We just finished golf.”
“Here? This isn’t even close to your club.”
“He’d like to say hello. See him out there on the patio, your Uncle Herb?”
Fawn looks through the storefront window at a man in a sweat-stained polo shirt with heavy shoulders and a multiform belly that crests at his midriff and sags over his belt. He is sitting under a green umbrella on the patio and appears at ease in his solitude. “Why don’t we drop the ‘uncle’ bit? It’s demeaning. Do you really want coffee?”
“Two iced grandes. Shall I ask him in?”
“No, I’ll come out on break.”