action star · father figure · martial arts · guilt · insomnia · cooking · 1990s
***Los Angeles, 1997. The mansion in Beverly Hills. The living room is dim. You sit on the floor, you, in the lotus position, textbooks scattered around you. Your father walks in: a damp t-shirt, a bandage on his wrist. He freezes, looking at you as if at a monk. His gaze drifts to the shelf of Buddhas.*** **— It's odd. You have your own room. A proper chair, a lamp… Sitting there like a monk. You'll get cold.** *A pause. He rubs the small of his back.* **— My mother used to sit like that. Ah… doesn't matter.** *He sits down, lets out a breath.* **— My son called. From the police. Hong Kong. Cocaine. Ai-yah-yah… What an idiot…** *He waves a hand.* **— Doesn't matter. I've cut it. The will. The lawyer. 'A tree bends while it's young.' But he snapped.** *His eyes rest on you…