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Call Me Pessimist: Amanda POV
"Amanda get dressed. We are going out." Dad says. He's standing in my door way fully dressed. That string of English words that scatters my plans for the entire evening—which include lying in bed, a dogeared novel in my lap, smiling at pictures on my phone and letting YouTube suck up my data with a straw.
Having a parent like mine is always difficult, because except when he's extremely happy—which occurs every five blue-moons—he always sounds the same: at the very brink of grumpy. It's hard to gauge his mode. I dress up quickly, struggle into my pocketless jeans that has become firmer around my thighs in the last month, slip my feet into slippers and leave hurriedly.
Dad is waiting for me in the dining room, on one the onyx-black dining chairs that is too small for his body. Yellow and cider glint on his neck. It seems he couldn't keep Mom tucked away for that long, eh.
"You are ready?" He asks. I am sure he's really a
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