Where Do We Draw The Line?

The door swung open. Dad stood in the doorway, wearing a faded T-shirt, worn-out sweatpants, and rubber slippers. Absentmindedly clutching the kitchen TV remote in one hand, he raised his eyebrows at the sight of me —drenched to the bone — then wordlessly turned back to the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.

I carefully removed my shoes, carried them with me, and padded to the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the parquet. Dropping my backpack on the floor, I turned on the tap and began scrubbing the mud from my shoes with ruthless precision. A few tiny pebbles had even wedged themselves inside.

Once the shoes were clean, I emptied my jacket pockets and hung it up. My phone, safe in its case, had survived the rain unscathed; the cash was slightly damp but intact; and the metal keys couldn’t care less about downpours. The suit itself was fine, save for the cuffs of the trousers, which I promptly wiped clean. After washing my face and hands and draping the rest of my clothes over the bathtub to dry, I grabbed my backpack and headed to my room. The bottle of Coke and chocolate bar were stashed deep in the closet, far from prying eyes. Digging through the drawers, I pulled out fresh sweatpants and a T-shirt, then changed. Just as I reached for the power button on my PC, Dad (or Batya this time?) suddenly appeared in the doorway, catching me mid-motion. Still silent, he beckoned with a finger, turned, and walked out.

Bracing for the worst, I followed.

He took his usual seat at the kitchen table — the same spot as during that conversation. I perched warily on the edge of the corner sofa. The table’s unnatural emptiness struck me first. No pots, no cups, no breadbasket, no salt or sugar containers. Everything had vanished, the surface wiped to a sterile shine — no crumbs, no coffee stains, nothing. Just two empty saucers and a cutting board bearing a freshly halved pomegranate. Ruby-red juice glistened on the knife blade, pooling slightly on the wood. I stared at the glistening seeds, avoiding Dad’s gaze.

Finally, he nudged the board toward me.

"Eat. Vitamins. Good for you."

He made an awkward gesture, then picked up the smaller half and bit straight into the flesh, seeds and all. I chose a more methodical approach, meticulously plucking each jewel-like aril, peeling back the membrane with surgical precision. Cleaning a pomegranate is weirdly meditative. You tear through the thick rind, make careful incisions, peel away the papery walls shielding the clusters, then extract each seed without crushing them. Only when every usable morsel is freed from pith and rot do you discard the husk.

And so I worked in silence, broken only by Dad’s wet chewing, occasional spitting of bits, and the whistle of sucked juice. Head bowed over my plate, the tension between us stretched taut as piano wire. This wasn’t a father-son meal — it was a tribunal.

At last, my half was fully dismantled, a mound of glistening seeds bleeding crimson onto the saucer. My fingers stuck together unpleasantly, stained red, but washing them now felt like surrender. I scooped up a handful and was about to eat when I realized the slurping had stopped. I looked up — had I been quicker, I’d have noticed Dad studying my face for the past fifteen seconds, left eye squinted in thought.

"You like her, don’t you?"

Boom.

I nearly dropped the seeds. My hand trembled, squeezing involuntarily — juice trickled down my wrist. Even as I steadied myself seconds later, the answer was obvious. Yes, I kept my expression neutral, but the storm of panic in my eyes betrayed me.

No, poker isn’t my game. Even with sunglasses. And I’d make a terrible spy. Hell with poker, hell with espionage! What’s the point of secrets when your eyes are like frosted bathroom glass — blurring details but never the essence? Though who installs transparent bathroom doors? Yet opaque eyes and ironclad resolve aren’t something you can just order online.

In short: I’d lost. One well-timed ambush question, and I was disarmed, trussed up, and served on a platter — only not yet gutted alive. But there’s still time…

Of course, denial was pointless. Dad watched me with triumphant cunning, having already read the truth. Gasping like I’d run out of air, I croaked one question:
"How?"

Genuinely — how? After the "lounge act," we’d barely spoken, avoiding each other like plague carriers. I’d have sooner expected tearful apologies (pure fantasy — he’d never apologized to anyone in my presence) than this surgical strike.

"Well, let’s see," Dad leaned back, stretching his legs under the table. "One: You’ve been waking up brighter lately. That morning gloom of yours? Gone. Haven’t seen your trademark ‘freeze-tea-with-a-glare’ look in two months. Though… it might return." He straightened, warming to his dissection, jabbing the air for emphasis. "Two: You come home from school in… unusually high spirits. Today’s rain and my little stunt dampened that, but outliers don’t count.

Absorbed in his explanation, Dad straightened up in his chair, tucking his legs beneath him, and spoke now with unusual animation, punctuating certain words by jabbing his index finger into the air.

"And here’s what’s interesting — this uplifted mood of yours lasts half an hour, an hour at most. And then what? Right—you shut yourself in your room and brood for hours. Definitely not about homework, eh? All while listening to that godawful ‘newfangled’ music, as they say."

"Not exactly new," I thought. "What year was the latest album in my collection, roughly? 2011, I think. So, eight years ago — what ‘newness’ is there to talk about?"

The jab about music stung, but I stayed silent and kept listening.

And three —" his voice dipped, "— by Saturday afternoon, you’re radiating misery. Which narrows it down to school."

Sundays had become a purgatory between weeks—sleeping in to compensate for sleepless nights, then simmering in restless energy, itching to overhaul everything come Monday. The inevitable crash was predictable.

"Now, what at school could interest you? Academic passion?" He smirked. "Doubtful. You’ve never had friends there, and I doubt that’s changed…"

"Oh yes!" my inner commentator chimed in, "One day, our hero went to school, chatted with his neighbor, and—plot twist — they bonded! A lightning strike of friendship! Tea parties! Outings! Dutch blitz!..."

Whether from the absurdity or sheer nerves, a laugh threatened to burst out — I disguised it as two loud sneezes. Dad paused, then resumed his monologue, which I’d already tuned out.

"—and finally," he fished something from his pocket, cupped between his palms, "exhibit A."

Boom. Again. But softer.

A notebook sheet, folded in quarters. Blank — at least it was before Dad got hold of it. I recognized it instantly, by smell. That scent. I’d taken it from her a week ago, unused, then left it in my desk drawer — only to be ambushed by her fragrance in my scentless room. (Not that it smelled bad — it just smelled of nothing, which sometimes choked me with viscous melancholy.) The sheet became a clandestine relic, periodically retrieved. Yesterday, I’d apparently forgotten to stow it back.

But had the scent really tipped Dad off?

And how many more such things were there in her bag, for instance? And not just in her bag. And not just things...

"Quite the aroma, eh?" He waved the paper under my nose. "Not some mint spray or cologne — this is natural. And if anyone says humans can’t smell good naturally, let them prove me wrong!"

"Hmm, what's he on about? You don't even know the source of that scent," my inner voice chimed in, increasingly serving as the voice of reason rather than idle rambling. And I found myself increasingly grateful for its rationality.

"You should've smelled that paper a week ago. Better yet, sat beside her five hours a day for a week," I glared darkly at Dad. My thoughts were heading in a different direction.

"Still, don't exaggerate. It's not the scent you need - it's the person."

"Yeah. The person, and the scent, and the smile, and the dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Wrap it up, keep the change."

"Would you like a discount?"

"To hell with discounts! I'd gladly overpay!" I nearly convulsed from internal laughter.

"Overpay!" the inner voice cackled, sounding almost unlike itself - "That's right, that's right, pay extra, open those wallets wider, citizens!" The voice was working itself into hysterics - "Just look at him! Today he's investing, overpaying, all joyful and content, happiness just radiating off him. And what comes later? Shattered ideals, pure frustration and canned disappointment marinating in the juice of impending depression. That's what comes later. And never, hear me, never pay more for things than they're worth!" The voice spat all this out in one breath and was now noisily catching its breath, creating a ringing in my ears.

"That's just it. The problem isn't things, the problem is people."

"So," Dad's voice brought me back to the kitchen sofa, "how deep in are you?"

"Deep in?" I asked in complete confusion.

His face grew markedly more serious. His brows drew together, the smirk disappeared from his lips, wrinkles carved deeper, and even his voice grew lower and huskier. The semi-joking explanation was over - "serious conversation number..." was approaching. I'd lost count already.

Dad sighed heavily and leaned closer. "We've been here before," flashed an anxious thought through my mind.

"Do you know what love is? Though I won't even try to explain. In my case, it was wonderful. At first. Then questionable, burdensome and desperate. Like trying to fill an empty vessel - except yours isn't empty, but it's far from infinite. Then the vessel emptied. And you know what was at the bottom? Pure filth that's not just unpleasant to touch, but even to look at. But no, I had to go and stir up that filth. Now I'm left to repack it alone in a world that's no longer beautiful."

The kitchen grew noticeably colder. I was listening to Dad more attentively than ever before.

"But really," Dad gave a bitter smile, "love is pure chemistry. It's not a gift from above because there's no one to send it. It's not a curse because there's no one to curse us. We create our own ideals in our subconscious. And when we find someone who matches those ideals even partially - because people who fully match our ideals don't exist, no matter what we think - the reaction begins. Heart pounds, blood flows. Except that blood now carries a shock dose of hormones."

I felt goosebumps rising. Again came that feeling of needing to say something.

"But if," I began slowly, noting with surprise that Dad was watching me as intently as I'd been watching him, "if this is truly the love they wrote about, spoke about, sang about and told stories of, the love they praised and glorified, then such love should consume people completely, drag them to the very bottom of the whirlpool, and if unrequited - burn them to ashes. Can that really just be pure chemistry?"

"Chemistry, chemistry..." Dad suddenly swung to the opposite extreme, looking distractedly past me with his head in his hands.

About twenty seconds passed. Finally he straightened up and removed his hands from his face:

"Remember... back then, a week or so ago... here in the kitchen..." I nodded quickly, pushing away the memories.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Well... I told her," I said, staring at my own knee.

"Hm... interesting. And what was her reaction?"

"I remember... pity, I think."

Then Dad suddenly slammed his fist on the table so hard I nearly jumped.

"Pity! Damned pity!" All his distraction vanished. "Pity - now that's truly a vile feeling! And why? When you fear someone - you place them above yourself. When you love or hate - you make them your equal. When you pity someone - you place them beneath you. Pity is perhaps the worst thing you can feel toward a person. Never. Allow. Yourself. To be pitied."

Now I too emerged from my slight distraction, twitching my numb legs.

"You know what I'll tell you in conclusion? It's best to stop. Right now, before it's too late. Jump off the train before it reaches full speed. A bruised rib is better than a punctured lung from that same broken rib. The human psyche is a delicate thing after all - any version of it can be broken if you choose the right tool."

With these words Dad slowly rose, his joints cracking, and left the kitchen.

Later that night, lying in the bathtub under streams of hot shower water, I thought about everything that had happened that day. About the torrential rain and - especially - about our first human conversation in a long time.

Stop. We could all use stopping to think right now. Only the train had long since reached full speed, and I was still spiraling downward, gaining velocity with each passing day.

And even if we were to stop - where? Where should we draw that line? "'We'? You said 'we'? Who exactly do you mean?"

I don't know. I truly don't know where part of me resides anymore.