two

                                        

                                              
FEBRUARY
THERE WAS AN ugly creature in the living room that Hadley couldn't name even if he wanted to. 
It was a sizeable, white sculpture that took its place at the left side of the TV and didn't really seem to have any identifiable form or shape beyond a smooth curve that looped back into itself, leaving an odd gap in the middle like a missing body part. It loomed and waited and watched, and he stared at it from the living room doorway as if trying to pinpoint where it was looking out from.  
His parents were sitting on the sofa. His father was still wearing his suit from work and his shining black oxfords, and he was watching some property show while his mom curled up in the corner, rapidly typing on her laptop. He stood in the hallway, observing as his father muttered about the people on TV while his mother worked and, after a delay, would ask him to repeat what he had said only to keep typing while he said it. Other than their muttering, the living room was filled with the sound of a false, desperate TV host.
Loudly, dramatically, he cleared his throat and, in unison, they snapped their heads towards him. His mother flashed him a smile and his father, his arm lying across the top of the sofa, craned his neck as far as he could. 
Hadley drew his gaze towards the sculpture and blinked at it, but neither of them moved, their faces locked with smiles, so he cleared his throat again and pressed, "What's that?"
"What's what?" His mom asked, tilting her head and watching him expectantly, her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders and her thin, light eyebrows knitting together. 
"That," he replied, nodding his head towards it and dropping his backpack at his feet. 
"Oh!" She cried, resuming her work and laughing at herself. "Some show your father is watching where people keep pretending that they're going to buy a new house and never actually do."
"Sometimes they buy the house," he argued lightly, pointing a finger at her. His right leg was folded over his left, his foot bouncing restlessly. 
"Not the TV," he frowned, eyeing the sculpture and shrugging his jacket off. "That. That white thing."
Swiftly, she followed her gaze and her face contorted into a scowl. Pursing her lips, her green eyes glinting with sharp disapproval, she scolded, "How could you say that? That white thing. It's not white, Hadley. It's angel wing."
Tucking his jacket over his arm, he cocked a brow and blinked at her, vague disgust in his stiff mouth and wide eyes. "What?"
"Angel wing," his father echoed, his gaze on the screen.
Leaning against the decorated oak dresser, his hands curved around the edges and his right leg folded over his left, he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at the sculpture. "What's angel wing?"
His mother hummed and halted her typing, biting the inside of her lip and glancing towards the ceiling thoughtfully. "It's like white," she began tactfully, "but it's not white. It's better than white: it's angel wing. It's like a dreamier, more heavenly version of white." 
"You sound like a commercial," he remarked, trying to figure out where it started and ended.
"Well, whatever," she said brightly, waving a hand at him and resuming her typing. "It's very in style right now and it makes the living room look so much more interesting so you can just keep your negative comments to yourself, Nancy. And anyway," — she sighed deeply, melodramatically — "Your father and I didn't expect you to understand."
"You didn't expect me to understand?" He echoed, glancing at the back of their heads. "Understand what?"
"The adoption of our new artistic style," she remarked, shaking her head.