“My father is late,” she says as if this would somehow explain why she hadn’t turned up for work.
“I see,” I say. But I don’t see. “Where has he gone?”
The only answer is a shrug. How can she tell? Nobody knows. Her eyes, russet flecked with gold like sunspots on two stars, are filled with sadness and with resolve.
“Perhaps he’ll come back soon,” I suggest helpfully.
But she looks like I might be a little crazy.
“He’s late,” she repeats slow, as you might to a child.
I’m still not giving her the response she clearly expects.
“Late. Dead,” she says
I am overwhelmed by embarrassment.