HOME | DD

Description
Mika Lungren entered her apartment and saw two men in long black coats. They stood in the kitchen in an intimidating arc around the only man in her life. She was too late to hear the conversation, but its effect honed the edges in all their faces. Especially the old man at the table. His edges used to be quite sharp. Now they were dulled by age and abandonment.

"We want you to understand our client's insistence in this matter, Mr. Lungren," said the lean, bald man.

"We'll be back," said the built blond. "After we take your message back, we'll deliver the response."

"You guys go screw yourselves," said the old man. "Tell my daughter to do the same."

Without reply, the men turned and met Mika in the foyer. A petite Asian girl in her 20s with lovely curves. The roundness of her breasts, hips, and buttocks seemed off-putting on a small body. Except for a long bang down the left side, her black hair was cut in a neck-length bob.

Mika wore a skin-tight, silver, long-sleeve with gold dragon-tail patterns. An exposed midriff showed off her toned abs. Her jeans weren't tight enough to be painted on, but they flattered her figure.

"And who are you?" said bald.

"Mika Lungren."

"Certainly not her daughter," said blond.

"Daughter-in-law," said Mika.

"Mr. Lungren has no sons," said bald.

"I'm his daughter's ex-wife."

"She didn't tell us that," said blond.

"Bad split," said Mika. "You two were leaving?"

"Yes," said bald. "To confer with our client . . . your ex-wife . . . and return with a . . . response."

"You two aren't welcome. Neither is your client. Now leave."

"Bad split indeed," said bald.

When the men were gone, Mika got two glasses of water and put tea on the stove.

"I can't leave you for a minute, Dad."

Trace Lungren brushed his white brillo cut with leathered hands. Decades of labor had turned them into mitts with very little sensation. They could still flex and grab quite well. They just had trouble with feeling.

"I think those two worried out the last of my blond," he said. "I was about to pull out some from that one kid."

"Eat in tonight?" said Mika.

"Sure," said Trace. "I can't believe she sent them."

"Bitch ex-wives. What can you do?"

"You should go out tonight. Meet a nice girl."

"So those lunks can come back?"

"They can't be . . ."

"I guarantee they're waiting for me to leave. What did they want?"

"What SHE wants. The coins."

"All of 'em?"

"Just the gold ones."

The teapot whistled as the kitchen filled with the scent of mango. Mika poured two cups. The steam rose like wind-tossed hair.

"Can't you drink normal tea?" said Trace.

"Fruit teas are good for you," said Mika.

"Damn, I miss coffee."

"You can have it next time we go out."

"So let's go out now."

"Dad, you just agreed to eat in."

"We'll eat in and go out for coffee."

"Tomorrow."

"Okay."

Trace was a sound sleeper. Mika learned that when the weather forced her and Lynn to spend their wedding night here. Or maybe Trace was pretending that time. He made a lot of accommodations for his daughter.

He didn't expect her to come out as gay, but that didn't change his love.

He didn't expect her to marry an Asian girl, but he accepted it.

He didn't expect hate from a daughter who had everything. And he certainly didn't expect to level up with a doting daughter-in-law. Trace had a lot of turmoil with Lynn, but a lot of luck ending up with Mika. She looked out for him like a true daughter should.

* * * * *

"Did you bolt the door?" said Trace.

"God yes, Dad!" said Mika.

"Sorry."

But Trace wasn't sorry for asking. He worried about the coins. They were the only thing he had left from his dad. Screw any hurt feelings over making sure about that. He may have lived hard, and had a hard time living, but dammit he earned the right to worry.

Lynn had tried to break in the apartment before, but the locks were top quality. And there was the bolted down floor safe. Nothing short of a jackhammer would start to free that baby. A lot of money provided peace of mind to preserve peaceful memories.

Still, the locks were worth it. Lynn was the nasty kind of petty who would slash everything for nothing.

The Peanut Diner was comfortably slow today. There was an anesthetic quality to the air. As if it surrounded your head like a cool pillow. It was one of those railroad-car type diners, with stainless steel splashed on the walls outside. And the tabletops inside. Depression-era mosaic floor tiling laid in designs one might glimpse in lobbies of fancy hotels. The barstools at the counter warbled like drowning owls as little kids spun around on them.

The outside was supposed to be modeled into a giant peanut. Money was lacking for one thing. For another, the owners got a letter from a peanut corporation warning not to infringe on their planned franchise of legume-themed restaurants.

Nobody made a fuss over the name, so why fight.

Mika was enjoying a turkey club with a beet salad Trace had a cheeseburger and fries, and his beloved coffee. Their booth was right next to the Wurlitzer jukebox, so he could get up and select his favorite songs from the 70s.

Right now, Heart's 'Magic Man' was playing.

"I don't get why we can't have coffee at home," said Trace.

"Because a diner is the best place for coffee," said Mika.

"And our kitchen ain't?"

"It's too small. Coffee smell needs to spread out . . . like butter on toast."

"You just don't wanna clean up the grounds."

"Got it in one."

The next customer to walk in was the bald from the other night. He was surprised to see Trace and Mika, but came over to their table anyway.

"I wonder if you've further considered my client's offer," he said.

"Nope," said Trace. "Now fuck off."

"No need for rudeness, Mr. Lungren."

"No need for harassment," said Mika.

"Ms. Lungren, I was only trying . . ."

"To get an attaboy from my ex-wife."

"It only makes sense I would ask . . ."

"You're not welcome at our home, so you badger us in public?"

"I'm only being paid to . . ."

"Be an asshole, is how you're being paid to."

"Now see here, Ms. Lungren."

The bald guy laid his hand on Mika's shoulder. She grabbed it, twisted it, and brought him screaming to his knees. He tried to reach for her, but the leverage and pain were too much. The air sang with a muted, wet snap. As the bald guy fell away, Mika booted him in the jaw. Another crunch. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

The young waitress, about to refill Trace's coffee, gazed in shock.

"I'd like to press charges on him," said Mika.

"Can I get that pot to go?" said Trace.

* * * * *

"Hello?"

Mika sat up on the couch to get the phone. Someday they'll invent one that flies to your hand when it rings.

"I didn't expect you to answer," said a voice.

"I screen all the calls, Lynn."

"Can I talk to my dad?"

"No."

"You sent my employee to the hospital."

"Don't you mean the infirmary?"

"I could sue, you know."

"Countersue, you mean. He touched me first."

"I should've cautioned him against that."

"And he was off-duty."

"True. My wrist still clicks funny from when we first met."

Mika went back to that night in the dance club. Lynn grabbed her butt and suffered mightily. It should've been a warning, but Mika took pity on the pale, elf-like girl. Taller than Mika by a head and wonderful to snuggle up to. But there was a dark spot in one eye.

"Don't call here anymore," said Mika.

"Those coins are my birthright," said Lynn. "Passed down from my grandfather. They're not yours."

"They don't matter to me. Dad matters."

"He's not your dad. And you know he hasn't got long."

"Longer than you think."

"Whether he gives them to me now, or leaves them to me when he goes, they belong to me."

"If he wants me to throw them in a river, I'll do it. You're never getting them. And the next goon you send will have a bed next to the other one."

"Oh, Mika. You're so cute when you're indignant. Where did we go wrong?"

"I never went wrong. Goodbye, Lynn."

"You bi-"

*CLICK*

Small victories are the best ones, but are best accented by a perfect cup of tea. It was her last bag of mango, so she brewed it extra long. The smell filled the kitchen like a drenched sponge. A slight squeeze would send the aroma down the hall to Trace's room.

If he overheard the phone call just now, he'd certainly agree it smelled better than coffee.

Description
Mika Lungren entered her apartment and saw two men in long black coats. They stood in the kitchen in an intimidating arc around the only man in her life. She was too late to hear the conversation, but its effect honed the edges in all their faces. Especially the old man at the table. His edges used to be quite sharp. Now they were dulled by age and abandonment.

"We want you to understand our client's insistence in this matter, Mr. Lungren," said the lean, bald man.

"We'll be back," said the built blond. "After we take your message back, we'll deliver the response."

"You guys go screw yourselves," said the old man. "Tell my daughter to do the same."

Without reply, the men turned and met Mika in the foyer. A petite Asian girl in her 20s with lovely curves. The roundness of her breasts, hips, and buttocks seemed off-putting on a small body. Except for a long bang down the left side, her black hair was cut in a neck-length bob.

Mika wore a skin-tight, silver, long-sleeve with gold dragon-tail patterns. An exposed midriff showed off her toned abs. Her jeans weren't tight enough to be painted on, but they flattered her figure.

"And who are you?" said bald.

"Mika Lungren."

"Certainly not her daughter," said blond.

"Daughter-in-law," said Mika.

"Mr. Lungren has no sons," said bald.

"I'm his daughter's ex-wife."

"She didn't tell us that," said blond.

"Bad split," said Mika. "You two were leaving?"

"Yes," said bald. "To confer with our client . . . your ex-wife . . . and return with a . . . response."

"You two aren't welcome. Neither is your client. Now leave."

"Bad split indeed," said bald.

When the men were gone, Mika got two glasses of water and put tea on the stove.

"I can't leave you for a minute, Dad."

Trace Lungren brushed his white brillo cut with leathered hands. Decades of labor had turned them into mitts with very little sensation. They could still flex and grab quite well. They just had trouble with feeling.

"I think those two worried out the last of my blond," he said. "I was about to pull out some from that one kid."

"Eat in tonight?" said Mika.

"Sure," said Trace. "I can't believe she sent them."

"Bitch ex-wives. What can you do?"

"You should go out tonight. Meet a nice girl."

"So those lunks can come back?"

"They can't be . . ."

"I guarantee they're waiting for me to leave. What did they want?"

"What SHE wants. The coins."

"All of 'em?"

"Just the gold ones."

The teapot whistled as the kitchen filled with the scent of mango. Mika poured two cups. The steam rose like wind-tossed hair.

"Can't you drink normal tea?" said Trace.

"Fruit teas are good for you," said Mika.

"Damn, I miss coffee."

"You can have it next time we go out."

"So let's go out now."

"Dad, you just agreed to eat in."

"We'll eat in and go out for coffee."

"Tomorrow."

"Okay."

Trace was a sound sleeper. Mika learned that when the weather forced her and Lynn to spend their wedding night here. Or maybe Trace was pretending that time. He made a lot of accommodations for his daughter.

He didn't expect her to come out as gay, but that didn't change his love.

He didn't expect her to marry an Asian girl, but he accepted it.

He didn't expect hate from a daughter who had everything. And he certainly didn't expect to level up with a doting daughter-in-law. Trace had a lot of turmoil with Lynn, but a lot of luck ending up with Mika. She looked out for him like a true daughter should.

* * * * *

"Did you bolt the door?" said Trace.

"God yes, Dad!" said Mika.

"Sorry."

But Trace wasn't sorry for asking. He worried about the coins. They were the only thing he had left from his dad. Screw any hurt feelings over making sure about that. He may have lived hard, and had a hard time living, but dammit he earned the right to worry.

Lynn had tried to break in the apartment before, but the locks were top quality. And there was the bolted down floor safe. Nothing short of a jackhammer would start to free that baby. A lot of money provided peace of mind to preserve peaceful memories.

Still, the locks were worth it. Lynn was the nasty kind of petty who would slash everything for nothing.

The Peanut Diner was comfortably slow today. There was an anesthetic quality to the air. As if it surrounded your head like a cool pillow. It was one of those railroad-car type diners, with stainless steel splashed on the walls outside. And the tabletops inside. Depression-era mosaic floor tiling laid in designs one might glimpse in lobbies of fancy hotels. The barstools at the counter warbled like drowning owls as little kids spun around on them.

The outside was supposed to be modeled into a giant peanut. Money was lacking for one thing. For another, the owners got a letter from a peanut corporation warning not to infringe on their planned franchise of legume-themed restaurants.

Nobody made a fuss over the name, so why fight.

Mika was enjoying a turkey club with a beet salad Trace had a cheeseburger and fries, and his beloved coffee. Their booth was right next to the Wurlitzer jukebox, so he could get up and select his favorite songs from the 70s.

Right now, Heart's 'Magic Man' was playing.

"I don't get why we can't have coffee at home," said Trace.

"Because a diner is the best place for coffee," said Mika.

"And our kitchen ain't?"

"It's too small. Coffee smell needs to spread out . . . like butter on toast."

"You just don't wanna clean up the grounds."

"Got it in one."

The next customer to walk in was the bald from the other night. He was surprised to see Trace and Mika, but came over to their table anyway.

"I wonder if you've further considered my client's offer," he said.

"Nope," said Trace. "Now fuck off."

"No need for rudeness, Mr. Lungren."

"No need for harassment," said Mika.

"Ms. Lungren, I was only trying . . ."

"To get an attaboy from my ex-wife."

"It only makes sense I would ask . . ."

"You're not welcome at our home, so you badger us in public?"

"I'm only being paid to . . ."

"Be an asshole, is how you're being paid to."

"Now see here, Ms. Lungren."

The bald guy laid his hand on Mika's shoulder. She grabbed it, twisted it, and brought him screaming to his knees. He tried to reach for her, but the leverage and pain were too much. The air sang with a muted, wet snap. As the bald guy fell away, Mika booted him in the jaw. Another crunch. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

The young waitress, about to refill Trace's coffee, gazed in shock.

"I'd like to press charges on him," said Mika.

"Can I get that pot to go?" said Trace.

* * * * *

"Hello?"

Mika sat up on the couch to get the phone. Someday they'll invent one that flies to your hand when it rings.

"I didn't expect you to answer," said a voice.

"I screen all the calls, Lynn."

"Can I talk to my dad?"

"No."

"You sent my employee to the hospital."

"Don't you mean the infirmary?"

"I could sue, you know."

"Countersue, you mean. He touched me first."

"I should've cautioned him against that."

"And he was off-duty."

"True. My wrist still clicks funny from when we first met."

Mika went back to that night in the dance club. Lynn grabbed her butt and suffered mightily. It should've been a warning, but Mika took pity on the pale, elf-like girl. Taller than Mika by a head and wonderful to snuggle up to. But there was a dark spot in one eye.

"Don't call here anymore," said Mika.

"Those coins are my birthright," said Lynn. "Passed down from my grandfather. They're not yours."

"They don't matter to me. Dad matters."

"He's not your dad. And you know he hasn't got long."

"Longer than you think."

"Whether he gives them to me now, or leaves them to me when he goes, they belong to me."

"If he wants me to throw them in a river, I'll do it. You're never getting them. And the next goon you send will have a bed next to the other one."

"Oh, Mika. You're so cute when you're indignant. Where did we go wrong?"

"I never went wrong. Goodbye, Lynn."

"You bi-"

*CLICK*

Small victories are the best ones, but are best accented by a perfect cup of tea. It was her last bag of mango, so she brewed it extra long. The smell filled the kitchen like a drenched sponge. A slight squeeze would send the aroma down the hall to Trace's room.

If he overheard the phone call just now, he'd certainly agree it smelled better than coffee.