Mother's Song| A PRN Short Story

Four

"And then, I just figured I was sleep walking because there's no way in hell that I'd eat oranges and coffee flavored candy." Prince's head falls back, his mouth expelling the loudest cackle that he's let out through our entire breakfast together. I guess the build up really got him going. Giggling, I cut into my food with the side of my fork. "I quickly realized that I was awake and that came to me when I was on the toilet at six o'clock in the morning. So, that's why I don't smoke anymore. It only took that one time to teach me a lesson," I shrug as my story comes to an end.

We'd been swapping stories for the last fifteen minutes. Ten minutes ago, he told me that I had the giggle of a teenage stoner that hid her joints in her jewelry box. I told him that I don't smoke after having a really bad experience... of course he wanted to know the experience.

Prince's breaths slow down, his laughter lowering in volume until it ceases to exist. He looks down at the table for a moment. For a second, I try to wait for our gazes to reunite until I realize that he is lost deep, deep in thought. My eyes focus in on his plate, just to have something to look at without being awkward. If I look at his face, it'll be weird. If I look at my lap, I'll be insecure looking. Where else is there to look?

Snapping out of it all, Prince lifts his head, sliding his chair away from the table. "You're all done, right?"

I glance down at my plate and suddenly, I want another moment to finish this last bite of my crepe. "I, actually... I, uh—" His sudden burst of energy caught me completely off guard.

"Great." My eyeballs enlarging within their sockets, I try to figure out what he is leading toward. Why would he ask me a question if he won't give me time to answer. To be honest, I don't imagine him even taking my answer into consideration even if I had the time to answer. It is clear he's had his mind made up for some time now. "I'll get changed and we can go." Prince downs the last gulp of his orange juice. His eyes dart between me and the door. He stops for a second, his bodily movements pausing as his focus remains on myself. Naturally, I return the stare with my own skeptical glossing overlaying the exchange. "You know what, you can come with me," he says.

He heads off toward the door without giving me the proper amount of time to display any reactions. I know they said he moved on his own clock, but... my god. I pick up the last piece of my breakfast and shove it in my mouth. My drink is already empty. I fold my napkin and place it on the table next to my cup before scurrying to keep up with Prince. He's clearly a man on a mission. My excitement ignites my bladder and as I'm scurrying behind Prince, I am forced to halt in the middle of an unfamiliar hallway.

"Hey, wait! I have to use the bathroom."

Yielding at the very edge of the hallway, he peers over his shoulder to look me in the eye... or so I thought. He sizes me up with all of the judgement in the world. The smirk he carries as he does so eases the judgement and, yet, somehow highlights my own hidden personal insecurities. The whirlpool of emotions he's sent mr through since arriving are beyond anything I can express and yet, he's managed to make me question the simple things every five minutes. I'd actually think something was wrong if I had no preexisting knowledge of how he operates. I'm playing this greatly appreciated cheat codes.

"Yeah, right." He let's out a chuckle and my brain goes to a loop. I have no idea what is happening in this exact moment. "First door on your right," he says, pointing down the left end of the hallway. "Meet me at the front door in five minutes."

Nodding, I throw my bag over my shoulder and scurry down the hallway.

In the bathroom, I can't help but look around at the décor. I can say it until I am blue in the face, the man is living in the future. The constant appearance of white lace made me feel as though I was back in my Aunt Charlene's home. She has a thing for the combination as well. Almost every nook and cranny in her home features linens and cloths that look as if they were ripped off a stray 1983 wedding dress. Then, again, this could have been the style back then— or should I say now? Yeah, this is the style now. At least, that is the assumption I'm going to make. Maybe it isn't. Clearly, Prince gives not a single damn and neither will my Aunt Charlene.