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Jul 08, 2019 14:09:56

They are artistes

by @timsubiaco PATRON | 354 words | 🐣 | 152💌

Tim Subiaco

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"You have to be pasient"

When my mum drinks she gets a French accent, I don't really know why. I lean back in my chair and look at the sunset tearing a red scar through the clouds. It's been about five days now since Cassie told me she was in London and I haven't heard a word from her since.

Earlier this week she sent a picture of her boarding the flight with a caption that said "There soon!" with a winky emoji. Cassie, you are twenty six, why are you sending winky emojis to random dudes you meet at festivals.

Since then my phone has felt like a bomb in my hand and I've sort of felt like an action hero from a bad 90's film. The clock is ticking down and I need to akido my way through a bunch of henchman to find the code to defuse the bomb before it's too late. Except there are no henchmen to fight and I don't really know how to do akido.

My mother sees me sweating in anticipation of having to do martial arts.

"She is an artiste. You have to be pasiente with ze artiste"

She sips her rosee and her cheeks flush a bright red.

"Zey live their own life and you must follow"

I look down and nod.

The bomb in my pocket feels like its going to explode any moment now.

"I just don't understand why she would say all these things just to drop me. Why do this?"

"Your mother is right," my Dad chimes in. I forgot he existed. "Maybe she's just had a lot to do. You just have to wait in line."

"Yeah, you guys are probably right. I just thought that she would at least give me a queue number at least."

My mother takes another sip of the rosee.

"And I thought you would get into Oxford."

I look at her but she isn't looking at me. She isn't looking at my Dad either. She is looking at the bleeding sky that is now completely torn open and unfurling clouds of ruby red.

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