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“And why don’t you think before you do things?”
“Well, where’s the fun in that?”
You lean back in your chair, but your arms are still folded. You look at a bird perched on someone’s clothesline. You’re not suspicious of your mom’s offer to go out to dinner “just because” – if she wants to talk to you about something, she tells you, and she knows better than to butter you up. But you do kind of regret the specific conversational turns that brought you to this moment.
“Seiji.”
She’s amused, kind of, but there’s a weight behind it she’s trying to hide. Just because she doesn’t want to push it on you doesn’t mean you can’t tell, though. You sigh, tilting the legs back onto the ground.
“What? I like to have fun. I like to be fun. Is there something wrong with that?”
She sighs quietly, pushing noodles around her dish with a fork. You glance away again – the bird’s still there. You wonder what it’s up to – it seems like a regular bird, but that’s not necessarily obvious from a distance. Maybe it likes to people-watch. Maybe it’s watching you.
“You know there’s more to life than that. I mean, do you want to be nineteen forever?”
“Sure.”
She doesn’t have to say anything. You can feel what she would if she did. You groan in response and stab your fork into a meatball. Her eyes are still on you.
“Okay, wrong answer.”
She shakes her head, reaching for her wineglass. She doesn’t do anything with it, just looks at the reflected lights.
“It’s only the wrong answer if you don’t mean it.”
You very deliberately stuff the meatball into your mouth, chewing it longer than you normally would.
“Maybe I do mean it. What does it have to do with anything, anyway? Plenty of folks don’t think. Maybe I’m just dumb.”
It’s her turn to continue the meal more deliberately than any normal person would, lifting her glass of wine to her mouth and taking a sip. She makes unblinking red eye contact with you the entire time, and you can tell she’s trying not to laugh. You guess it is kinda funny. If it was anyone else (a specific someone else) it’d put you on edge. But you know your mom.
Finally, she sets the glass down.
“Do you think people who are ‘just dumb’ do it for fun?”
You shrug.
“Yeah, I guess. Why else would they do it?”
She looks down at her plate. Probably picking her words carefully. She looks somehow more tired than usual. A different kind of tired, anyway. She’s probably gonna point out that being dumb for real isn’t a choice, and that you’ve got to have a reason for wanting to choose to be dumb, and – well, you’re not about to pick apart your own argument for her.
“Okay, what’s bothering you?”
You weren’t expecting that.
“Uh, nothing?”
It’s not an honest answer, but it’s not a dishonest answer. You really can’t think of anything specific that’s eating at you. Your chest does feel kinda tense, though. You reach for your own wineglass this time, taking an uneasy sip.
She’s looking at you, now, with the same expression she was showing her pasta. You still can’t read it. She doesn’t look like she’s about to say anything. It’s probably a bad idea, but you start spinning your wheels.
“You want me to come up with something? S’not like my life is perfect. My teacher dropped me without a word, the guy I like doesn’t like me back, I don’t have a job, I don’t know what kinda job I’d want, I’m…”
You set down the wineglass, looking away. You see that the bird’s taken off. You’re not sure how to continue – you can’t put it into words other than “I’m me.” And that’s not a problem, exactly, but it feels more like an answer to “what’s bothering you?” than you’re comfortable with.
She doesn’t say anything, just takes another bite. You decide to follow suit, even though you’re not really hungry anymore. It doesn’t taste like anything. You don’t care. You feel the wind ruffle your hair a little and don’t do anything to fix it.
Finally, she sets her fork down and leans forward, her chin on her folded fingers.
“What’s going on?”
“I just told you.”
She shakes her head.
“Not in your life. In your head.”
“Huh?”
“What are you thinking about, right now? Don’t think about it, just…”
You open your mouth, but her saying to not think about the answer has somehow twisted your brain into thinking so hard that you can’t find the words. I don’t know sounds pathetic. That doesn’t stop it from being true, though. You try to do what she asked, spit out the first thing that comes to your mouth.
“You already know I don’t think about what I do, why would I think about what I think?”
She laughs quietly at that.
“And why’s that?”
“… Where’s the fun in that?”
You’re trying to make this funny again, echoing your earlier words, but it comes out awkward now, not flippant. Like you’re actually asking her.
“Well, you said it yourself. You like to be fun, and… for better or worse, we are what we think.”
You’re not sure you like that philosophy. You roll your eyes, scratching the back of your neck with your free hand.
“I like to do funny things, that doesn’t mean it’s a nonstop party up here.”
She shakes her head, smiling. It has about as much humor in it as when she laughed.
“I understand. But… do you really not think about yourself? About what you think, what you want, who you are?”
“No.”
It comes out more forcefully than you expected, and you glance around. Nobody else seems to have heard. She’s looking at you, and you don’t like that she seems so sad. It’s your problem, not hers.
“Well… I won’t ask why not. But I think about who you are, sometimes. And I like you.”
You look at her, blinking more than you were earlier.
“You’re my mom.”
“And? You know that doesn’t mean I have to like you.”
You know she’s right. It’s something you like about her, really. She doesn’t follow the bullshit parenting script about unconditional love and for your own good and whatever else everyone else seems to say. She’s just… herself at you. She does it more now, or maybe it’s just more obvious now you’re not a little kid.
And you know exactly what she means, about parents who, for whatever reason, actually don’t like their kids. You put your cheek on your palm, looking almost at her face.
“Well, what do you think about me, then?”
She sits up a little straighter, putting her hands on the table. They’re still folded.
“I think… you’re trying harder than you want to admit. You’ve been hurt, and you’re almost away from the person who hurt you, but you’ve been around her long enough that you don’t know how to be away from things that hurt. And that makes it seem like the reason you hurt is you.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You take another bite, instead.