Bertie Hoover watched a boy through the tinted black window of his black, 2015 Camaro. His lips were pulled downward in disapproval and his sungalasses perched on the end of his nose so he that could peek over them. The boy had his eyes----brown, shimmering, full of vigor. His hair, however, was a light mi of a thousand beautiful colors ranging from a strawberry blond to a sandy light brown.

He looked like his mother, really. The young, energetic boy had her nose, her hair, her dimples, and every other thing that was beautiful about her.

Except for her eyes. Harrison Hoover shared the same, shimmering eyes that his father had.

Bertie shook himself out of his thoughts about his late wife and pulled his shades back up as Harrison pulled the passenger's side door open and slid onto the leather seat. The boy flipped the mirror down and leaned close to it as he pulled a bag of wipes out of his backpack. His lips were pursed in concentration as he began to carefully remove the shimmering makeup from his natural-glowing cheeks.

Bertie couldnt help but stare at his boy. The recent highschool graduate had taken up what Bertie considered to be strange and unusual hobbies for a maturing teenage boy.

He sighed in bitter resignatkon and turned away, putting the car in drive.

"Harrison?"

The eighteen-year-old boy looked up.

"Hmm?" he asked, wiping a clear gloss from his lips. Bertie's own lips seemed to be stuck in a frown.

"You know I don't approve of this, Son."

Harrison's glowing smile faltered as he tucked the used wipes into his pocket.

"Why do you hate this so much, Dad? I'm grown; I'm starting college at the best school in-state in the fall, and I'm resourceful. Why won't you let me do what I love?" He sighd and turned in his seat, his silky smooth hair falling across his forehead.

"Mom was a thespian," he argued softly. "You know this."

He sounded upset, and he watched as his father's facial expressions softened for a split second before immediately turning as cold and hard as stone.

"You are not your mother, Harrison," he replied sternly, through gritted teeth. It had been a long day at work, and the hunt to find a new dmployee to replace the one he had fired yesterday was proving more difficult than he hac anticipated. He simply was not in te mood to fight about Rosaline.

Harrison slammed the visor back up an pushed his bag off of his lap and onto the floorboard.

"Yeah, well, neither are you! You two used to be so alike! You were happy, and you basked in her ability to put on a show. You'd let her drag you all over God's green earth if that's what she wanted, and yoh liked it! Broadway, art shows, operas----if she was there, you were thers. You loved her and everything that she loved.

"I don't know whether you hate my involvement with theatre because I'm your son, or because it reminds you too much of her, but holding me back from it is frankly inconsiderate." His father parked the car in their driveway and Harrison fliung the car door open, grabbing his things as he stepped out.

After a struggle with his backpack, which had gotten caught beneath the seat, he leaned against the dood and stared straight at his father.

"You know what??? When Mom died, you died, too. I don't even knos you anymore."

He slammed the door shut, and Bertie Hoover watched, feeling more defeated than ever as his one and only son walked away from the house and to God knew where.