Lies.
I always wanted to be an investigator, you know – tight black pants, dark shades, long blonde hair. I used to walk right up to people and say “Bond, Melissa Bond” in the best accent that came out at the time. When there was a dress up party guess what I dressed as? Cat women… there were never any investigator costumes that looked right. When I told the gothic lady at the desk that I wanted to look just like “James bond the investigator”, she looked at me with her immortal eyes and hi
Cat women… there were never any investigator costumes that looked right. When I told the gothic lady at the desk that I wanted to look just like “James bond the investigator”, she looked at me with her immortal eyes and hissed “James was a spy”.
My father told me he was an investigator; in fact my father told me lots of things that weren’t true. Like, that he wasn’t the tooth fairy, that he didn’t let me win the running races, that he had only ever loved my mother…
Mum and dad met in college, it was the classic Holly Wood love story. Mum was the biggest geek in the school with massive glasses and tie-dyed overalls. Dad made fun of her and Mum wrote in her journal about how much she hated the fact that she loved him. The next year Mum ‘grew up’ in all the different ways and Dad fell in love with her back. Five years later they had me.
Ever since I was tiny i can remember thinking that the picture of love was my Mum and Dad. Every time they got the chance, they would embrace like it was the last time they were going to see each other. The way Mum looked at dad was with complete desire, like a cat about to pounce at its prey. What I would do to see that again. That honest, unpretentious love...
He was in the shower taking ages, again. I sat in my stupid kilt and my manly white shirt freezing my bum off. “Hurry up Dad!” I’ve been late for school six times this week, and there is only five days in a week! Passionately the shrill of his screech started the same tune that he whistled every day; he was the happiest in the morning which I thought was the weirdest, most annoying thing since car trailers-why would someone create something that is made to follow you around like a sheep?
I loathed mornings, I genuinely believe that the sun rises earliest in our country just to irritate me, and I go to bed at 8.30pm every night during the week days. Dad doesn’t even get home from work until 1.30am, and then he wakes up at 6.30am to wake me up!
Thumping my head against the top of the counter in our over clattered kitchen, I gave up trying. Mrs James probably expects me to be late anyway; I wouldn’t want to let her down. I adopted the idea to sleep where my head had landed, maybe a few extra flashes of my dream land would put me into a better mood. However, where my head landed, was on the blazer dad had worn home from work last night and had thrown with the rest of our hoarded collection of things. I would usually be content with making this my pillow of black velvet material, but the smell made me anxious. Gone was the deep musky smell of my father, in its place was the sweet, spicy smell of a women.
My first and only rational thought was that my mother had done something the same as I was now, that she was exhausted in her pursuit to make coffee this morning and had rested her head on the blazer also. Yet, my mother has had the same perfume for 18 years, her only perfume. Hers was more innocent, like the aroma of new flowers in spring. This one, this one was lustful.
I thought of all the reasons there could be for a man’s blazer to smell this way. Maybe dad had bumped into someone on his walk home, it would have been cold, and he would have been hurrying. However dad doesn’t walk home, he drives. Maybe it someone’s birthday at his office and he gave her a hug. Yet, dad’s office is full of men, apart from his boss who he hates.
He sucks at lying I say in my head “he wouldn’t cheat” I convince myself out loud.
“Who wouldn’t?” I hear dad say loudly as he bounces from behind me like ‘Tigger’ in the children’s programme ‘Winnie the Pooh’.
“If its Jamie, I could have told you that, that boy is a player. I know his type” he brushes off nonchalantly.
“Get your head off my blazer you’ll get that blusher stuff on it” he grumbles as he tugs it from underneath me.
“Its foundation!” I yell “Now can you hurry up!” I yell again before I trudge out the door to his car.
Waiting, I try to find more evidence. I pretend that he is not my dad and that I have no personal connection to this suspect. I just have to find out the truth, if not for me, for my mum. I take a deep breath whispering to my senses to pick out the feminine pieces to this male orientated puzzle. My nose finds the smell again, the spice infused into the passenger seat belt – the place I usually find the innocent smell of spring. Further searches found, lipstick in glove compartment, a strand of blonde hair on the backseat and a receipt for $600 at the ‘My Lady’ lingerie store. My heart defeated I put the evidence back in its place and waited.
School went hasty, I avoided Jamie. Now he thinks I’m guilty of something. I suppose I am in a way, if I hadn’t looked, if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t be carrying the tingling spices in my nose like tons and tons of bricks on my shoulders. The entire day my stomach took place in my uterus, I really don’t think it could sink any lower without falling out.
He was late home again, I snooped from the hall as he slinked through the back door and sat in the same position I had earlier this morning. He looked out of place in our family home, like among the stuff he just didn’t belong. He was not my father any longer; he wasn’t my tooth fairy or my friendly competitor. Storming abruptly up to him I snatched the keys from his conniving finger tips and jogged to the car. Unlocking the door my hands shook like the angry earth of Christchurch. I reached back into the darkness of the car knowing exactly where this mission was going.
After collecting the evidence I screamed back in to the kitchen, I wanted him to see, to know that I knew. As I picked up the lid of the trash can I watched his face grow into an expression of understanding, his eyes read the open book of his mistake. Dropping the signs of his gaffe into the willing trash, I whispered what they gothic lady had mocked at me.
“James Bond is not an investigator, he is a spy”
My father told me he was an investigator; in fact my father told me lots of things that weren’t true. Like, that he wasn’t the tooth fairy, that he didn’t let me win the running races, that he had only ever loved my mother…
Mum and dad met in college, it was the classic Holly Wood love story. Mum was the biggest geek in the school with massive glasses and tie-dyed overalls. Dad made fun of her and Mum wrote in her journal about how much she hated the fact that she loved him. The next year Mum ‘grew up’ in all the different ways and Dad fell in love with her back. Five years later they had me.
Ever since I was tiny i can remember thinking that the picture of love was my Mum and Dad. Every time they got the chance, they would embrace like it was the last time they were going to see each other. The way Mum looked at dad was with complete desire, like a cat about to pounce at its prey. What I would do to see that again. That honest, unpretentious love...
He was in the shower taking ages, again. I sat in my stupid kilt and my manly white shirt freezing my bum off. “Hurry up Dad!” I’ve been late for school six times this week, and there is only five days in a week! Passionately the shrill of his screech started the same tune that he whistled every day; he was the happiest in the morning which I thought was the weirdest, most annoying thing since car trailers-why would someone create something that is made to follow you around like a sheep?
I loathed mornings, I genuinely believe that the sun rises earliest in our country just to irritate me, and I go to bed at 8.30pm every night during the week days. Dad doesn’t even get home from work until 1.30am, and then he wakes up at 6.30am to wake me up!
Thumping my head against the top of the counter in our over clattered kitchen, I gave up trying. Mrs James probably expects me to be late anyway; I wouldn’t want to let her down. I adopted the idea to sleep where my head had landed, maybe a few extra flashes of my dream land would put me into a better mood. However, where my head landed, was on the blazer dad had worn home from work last night and had thrown with the rest of our hoarded collection of things. I would usually be content with making this my pillow of black velvet material, but the smell made me anxious. Gone was the deep musky smell of my father, in its place was the sweet, spicy smell of a women.
My first and only rational thought was that my mother had done something the same as I was now, that she was exhausted in her pursuit to make coffee this morning and had rested her head on the blazer also. Yet, my mother has had the same perfume for 18 years, her only perfume. Hers was more innocent, like the aroma of new flowers in spring. This one, this one was lustful.
I thought of all the reasons there could be for a man’s blazer to smell this way. Maybe dad had bumped into someone on his walk home, it would have been cold, and he would have been hurrying. However dad doesn’t walk home, he drives. Maybe it someone’s birthday at his office and he gave her a hug. Yet, dad’s office is full of men, apart from his boss who he hates.
He sucks at lying I say in my head “he wouldn’t cheat” I convince myself out loud.
“Who wouldn’t?” I hear dad say loudly as he bounces from behind me like ‘Tigger’ in the children’s programme ‘Winnie the Pooh’.
“If its Jamie, I could have told you that, that boy is a player. I know his type” he brushes off nonchalantly.
“Get your head off my blazer you’ll get that blusher stuff on it” he grumbles as he tugs it from underneath me.
“Its foundation!” I yell “Now can you hurry up!” I yell again before I trudge out the door to his car.
Waiting, I try to find more evidence. I pretend that he is not my dad and that I have no personal connection to this suspect. I just have to find out the truth, if not for me, for my mum. I take a deep breath whispering to my senses to pick out the feminine pieces to this male orientated puzzle. My nose finds the smell again, the spice infused into the passenger seat belt – the place I usually find the innocent smell of spring. Further searches found, lipstick in glove compartment, a strand of blonde hair on the backseat and a receipt for $600 at the ‘My Lady’ lingerie store. My heart defeated I put the evidence back in its place and waited.
School went hasty, I avoided Jamie. Now he thinks I’m guilty of something. I suppose I am in a way, if I hadn’t looked, if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t be carrying the tingling spices in my nose like tons and tons of bricks on my shoulders. The entire day my stomach took place in my uterus, I really don’t think it could sink any lower without falling out.
He was late home again, I snooped from the hall as he slinked through the back door and sat in the same position I had earlier this morning. He looked out of place in our family home, like among the stuff he just didn’t belong. He was not my father any longer; he wasn’t my tooth fairy or my friendly competitor. Storming abruptly up to him I snatched the keys from his conniving finger tips and jogged to the car. Unlocking the door my hands shook like the angry earth of Christchurch. I reached back into the darkness of the car knowing exactly where this mission was going.
After collecting the evidence I screamed back in to the kitchen, I wanted him to see, to know that I knew. As I picked up the lid of the trash can I watched his face grow into an expression of understanding, his eyes read the open book of his mistake. Dropping the signs of his gaffe into the willing trash, I whispered what they gothic lady had mocked at me.
“James Bond is not an investigator, he is a spy”
1 Comment
add a comment :)