Two homeworks and bathroom meditation

I have been waiting for twenty minutes now, according to the ancient clock on the shelf. Waiting for him to get out of the bathroom where he usually goes to "try and figure things out", or at least that's what it used to be. Pictures on the table look out of place, I'll leave them for later when I'm even more bored, though. What would he possible need me for, years after we decided to ignore that either and/or both of us together ever happened.

I remember seeing him for the very first time and thinking that something about the way his hair falls on his face so haphazardly reminds me of the my paper-eating cousin. The idiotic cousin, specifically, who got food poisoning after eating my math homework in middle school as a way of punishing my dog for having "pooped" on his writing homework that took hours to finish. My dyslexic cousin who spent hours reading postcards, how he mourned that little homework, and how I laughed!

Of course, I couldn't have gone unpunished for that. In fact, I was punished for years! My mother decided that I was too evil to exist around other, beautiful, innocent children and decided to keep me behind the bars of homeschooling. I was encouraged to write by my teacher who begged me to say anything just so he knows I do know how to speak at 13. Anything extra-ordinary in happening is a call for me to go to an empty room, or even the bathroom, and write and whine about how other people's lives can be fascinatingly normal and naturally smooth rather than my life that always remains one-eyebrow-raising in every moment of its passing.

The fact that he circled his uncle with a red marker in that picture is frightening. These pictures, if i remember correctly, are a family legacy. His dad still had teeth in that picture and mom was so-- alive.
He always felt guilty for having out little engagement gathering, not even a party, only a year and half (yes, 18 months) after his mother moved to heavenly spheres.
For laughing inside, I always thought maybe he's giving his mother time not only to process the fact that she's dead but also the fact that he is thinking of marrying the girl whom she always thought was a boy when I was invited to his house on weekends. It was not until that weekend when he dared me to wear heals that his mother stole a moment when he was in the bathroom to gave me the most smiley look of dismay.That, of course, was after they had a little talk in which he explained I was "female" all along.

I can hear flushing. I guess meditation time is about to end. I sincerely do not wish to know what is going on with him, let alone be here. It's too late to runaway now, not before I pay for my dinner-driving-away-as-if-nothing-happened tragic departure.

(to be continued)