Mom bent down to kiss his cheek in the hospital's waiting room. "I'm sorry I have to go, honey," she said. "People depend on me."

Scrubbed linoleum, indifferent light between blank walls and smell of antibacterial cleaners numbed him so much, he didn't laugh at her face, but peered into it with rounded eyes. The depth of her self-absorption! What, the nation wouldn't survive without her articles on throw pillows and ranking perennial choices for curb appeal?

"But, dad?" he whispered. "What if he—"

"He will pull through, honey. And he'll get good care," she replied, then her voice rang. "He always does. I'll call you from New York as soon as I can."

She kissed him again. This time he flinched. It finally sank in that she would actually hop on the plane and leave.

"I'll call," she repeated and sauntered out of their lives. Harris has no idea if she did. As soon as he got over his shock, he blocked her number.

***

The memory nearly cuts off the flow of air to Harris' lungs. "How, how could a decent human being leave after you'd been sacrificed?"

Without as much as a disappointed shake of his head, Sarkisian Senior wheels himself to the kitchenette.

"Sacrificed... so there wouldn't be a scratch... A single scratch on her!"

Dad gathers the shards of the broken wineglass from the sink into a towel, as if Harris isn't choking on his words by the window. He looks so awkward at it...

Harris gulps air, steadying himself, then closes the distance in three steps—walking is easy when one has legs. "Here, let me—"

Dad has done a stellar job already.

"I'm glad that she didn't stay." Dad's throat, covered with graying stubble, bobs. "What kind of man wants duty, pity, and sacrifice from a woman? It's not me, and not you. Not back then. Not now. Never, Harris, never!"

"You have no idea what I want, do you?"

A shrug lifts Sarkisian Senior's shoulders under a thread-bare t-shirt. "How can I? You won't tell me. But it's okay... Find whatever joy you need, son. Happiness."

"I'll be happy when—" When?

"Aha." A tiny nod underscores the saintly look Sarkisian Senior has been developing lately, with his tan skin stretched over his skull, retreating curls, soulful eyes and deepening laugh-lines. "Aha. Call mom. Talk to her at last. Not for me, Harris. For yourself."

"I don't need to." Harris stares at the backsplash, then pokes it with his finger. The insulation is peeling off. If he doesn't reseal it, the mold will start growing. Maybe after the next shift? "I'm happy with the way things are, Dad."

Sarkisian Senior puts his hands up. "I don't disagree, but let me play devil's advocate for a second here. Would a happy man waste wine—not the best wine, mind you—but, anyway, would a happy man fling glassware at the mere suggestion of calling his mother?"

Harris squints at the TV in the kitchen's corner as a culprit. Has dad added shrink DIY talk-shows to his binge-list of true crime serials? And, speaking of shrinks, an actual specialist says dad needs patience and time to heal. Lots and lots of time. If they keep arguing about mom, it might not happen at all, but Harris can't, just can't forgive and forget. Who would? No, seriously, who would?

God. What a mess!

Right now, that pool of calm he experienced with the girl on the balcony would have been very welcome. He'd dip into it and the de-escalating words would spill from his mouth. But he'll never see the angel girl again. He's on his own here, playing a game of psychological chess: thinking five steps ahead, feints and masterstroke moves.

Harris stretches like a man without a care in the world. Grins so wide, his cheeks ache.

"You know what? I surrender." He points at the chess-board. "I want a re-match. And... oh! Line up those deserving bachelorettes for me to check out after I have a nap."

"Hmm."

Of course, dad doesn't sound convinced! Harris capitulated too easily. He needs to tease a challenge. "A fair warning though, dad. I've met a girl at work and there's just no beating her. She's a..." He air-kisses his fingers.

"Hmm." Now, now, there's a familiar bluster in Sarkisian's Senior's response. "I've been hitting thirty percent home-runs with the last dozen. I think I know your taste by now."

"Twenty-five at most!"

Dad's eyes crinkle, as he sets his empty wineglass into the sink and fills it with water to soak. "Twenty-five! Bah."

Smile that curves Harris' lips lightens his heart, like it's a genuine artifact. Really, where is the harm in playing a little? Let dad have his fun with playing a match-maker. Meanwhile, their bank account can take a break from this pointless dating. It'll be a week, maybe even more, until dad questions the girlfriend's existence. Until then, Harris gets away with swiping left and scrunching his face like a toddler.

Dad's voice breaks his reverie. "What does she look like?"

"Huh?"

"The lady from work. What does she look like?"

The passed-out girl's face flickers in Harris' mind's eye again. The tension in his low back releases so much, he expels a contented sigh.

"A fiery redhead." A lie has never felt this natural. "And hardly a stuffy lady."

Dad's face falls a little. Obviously, Sarkisian Senior has hoped for a nice Armenian girl, or just a nice girl since Milwaukee is too small to bump into other Armenians often.

But what can Harris do? Boring ladies don't pass out in hotel rooms wearing black lingerie and call for fire angels to come to their rescue. Maybe she's part a lady, part a nun, and part a whore? Maybe she is... His eyes hood over and a smile just won't leave his lips. "Picture a fallen woman with a pure heart. Very Moulin Rouge."

Dad's head tilts to one shoulder. Perhaps he's considering if he can work with that or he's trying to place the reference.

Harris smirks. If he made the potential 'girlfriend' sound too perfect, the game wouldn't be worth playing for dad.

"She's not a natural redhead, but it suits her," he goes on, rummaging through the cupboards to get another long stem. There has to be one, hiding behind the fat-bellied whiskey glasses. "Aha!"

As Harris pours wine, the drink makes him realize he isn't inventing things. Her skin was pale, like this wine, not semi-translucent pink dotted by freckles of the natural redheads. It was an opaque pallor of a brunette. If he closes his eyes completely, he can even see the raven-black tresses underneath the streaks of red.

"Beautiful eyes." Not that he knows their color, but 'beautiful' is right no matter what. Her eyelashes are long, curved.

There're also parts of her he saw plenty of. "And the legs, dad, the legs! It's A+ for the legs."

"And the name of this... ah... leggy goddess?" dad replies nonchalantly, but there's no fooling Harris. Sarkisian Senior took the bait, hook, line and sinker. He'll stop pestering Harris about the past and will spend hours on Tinder searching for a worthy rival to this imaginary girlfriend.

"Wouldn't you want to know?" Harris heads upstairs, with the wineglass in his hand. "See you in a bit, okay?"

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," his father calls after him.

A pang of regret tugs on Harris' gut. If only he could experience the same joy from hearing this as he did in his childhood!

Feeling older than his twenty-four, he throws back the wine. Dad's right: it's really not the best vintage... but who cares?

He leaves the glass on the nightstand and crawls into bed. Fatigue washes over him, but he folds his arms under his head and stares at the ceiling, instead of nodding off.

The ceiling is white, like the pillowcase in the Avantgarde must have been before the soot smeared it. The pillowcase his head is resting on is practically the same. So what? A million other households have practical white bedding.

He flips to his side, closes his eyes. Flames dance, becoming a winged figure.

Fire angels? What's the word for fire angels? The seraphim? Are there seraphim in town? Is one of them an arsonist? Jesus H. Christ!

In a daze, Harris gets out of bed and strips it, tossing the white sheets into the laundry basket. He grabs the change of linens from the bathroom closet and groans again. His other bedding set is dark-red. Not the same shade as the girl's hair, but now he must remember the exact shade of her hair. Dammit!

Gritting his teeth, Harris remakes the bed anyway and settles into the savasana pose. Arms falling gently to his sides. Full relaxation.

He won't think about the girl. He won't dream about her hair on those white 600-thread Egyptian linen. Her voice will stop echoing through his head.

Her voice, so tiny but somehow powerful enough to calm his anxiety.

Don't you dream of her too... It's just a ruse... for dad...

But he does.