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Taste Of Betrayal
My father was already sitting on the sofa with two steaming cups resting on the small table in front of him, waiting patiently and pressing something, probably ice, against his swollen cheek and typing something on his phone, reminding me that I had left mine behind.
Looking around the apartment, I see that while I was in the bathroom, he did some gathering and cleaning, the place doesn’t look as messy as it was a few minutes ago, still messy though, and you can almost immediately guess that a middle-aged man with drinking problems and a messed up life lives here.
Lifting his head off his phone, he offers me a fatherly smile, his eyes dripping with pity as they roam my face, probably because of all the bruises it carried.
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