It’s A Trap!

Looking at the still-stiff, sixteen year old, canvas duffel bag with his daughter, he couldn’t prevent the thought, “Man, I can’t believe I still use this bag-”

“What’s in that pocket, daddy?” she interrupted. “Socks?” she guessed as she reached with a raptor’s velocity into the opening. Looking up at him, her excitement was betrayed by her breathlessness and she said, “A glove?!”

“Your gloves,” he answered, pulling out the second one, anxious to keep the pair united. “From when you were smaller. Just give them here.”

“But I want to wear them.”

“Fine. Whatever. Actually, no. Don’t put them on just yet. We have to go to church-”

“Aww.”

“-But,” he continued, “I’ll put them in the go-bag and you can put them on after we change into comfy clothes for the trip. Deal?”

“Deal.”

****

Finding themselves changing in the old church’s random nursing station, the father couldn’t have had more on his mind. Remnants of the adrenaline his body released earlier that morning whilst playing the piano for the congregation lingered, and also capturing his attention was the anxiety of starting a road-trip from an unknown location in the city.

“My hands are cold, Daddy.”

“Okay, H-. That’s fine,” he said. “We’ll be in the car in a minute.”

Upon her entry into the back seat, she found the gloves and put them on.

Clevah gairl,” he mumbled to himself.

“So you’re hands were cold, eh?” he asked, laughing. “You sure do have a one track mind. ‘I see gloves. I want to wear gloves. Dad controls gloves. Gloves make hands warm. I need cold hands. Must share hand temperature with Dad.’ Ha.”

****

“Daddy, I’m hungry. When are we stopping for lunch?”

“We’re headed to Limon for lunch. I just want to knock out a bit of the trip before we stop. Sound fair?”

“Yes.”

****

“H-, where are you going? The restroom is over here.”

“Huh-uh,” she said, pointing to the family restroom sign.

“Ah. Okay. Good call. Let’s go then. We need to hurry and get back on the road.”

She stood and watched as he ran his hands under the faucet.

“You gonna wash your hands or what?”

He watched an incredulous look come over her face as she began to fiddle with her hands.

“You want me to take off my gloves?”

Mirroring the mood with his own bewildered look, he answered, “You still have your gloves on? Fine. Okay. Nope. I guess there’s no need to wash your hands if you went potty with your gloves on. Come on. Let’s go.”

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One comment

  1. Pingback: Showcasing other writers, December 28, 2015 | The Write Edge Writing Workshop by Ekta R. Garg

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