True love is the Godfather theme song playing when my father’s phone rings, 
a call from my mother.
I pull packets of instant oatmeal and powdered hot chocolate 
out of the kitchen drawers of my father’s office. 
I’ll make them later, 
a late-night snack to accompany Dance Moms and a bedroom floor amidst a collaging phase.
Out of the stainless steel Amona fridge,
I take one A&W can, 
pull the tab to open the top, 
and chug half of the liquid sugar down,
an antidote to my rumbling stomach.
I squeeze a child’s applesauce packet down the gullet, hoping to come alive.
The Godfather theme song plays again from across the open floor plan.
I swig down the rest of the root beer and traipse to the other end of the empty office, 
where my father’s cubicle stands.
His phone is held tight between his shoulder and face while he types away at a laptop.
I’m catching bits of the dialogue, 
my father taught me how to catch flies just as quickly, 
your hands have to rise with the fly as it attempts to escape your inevitable grasp.
The best flies are caught six inches above your head and a second early.
He hangs up, 
then shuffles and counts papers, 
his fingers making tondues and rond-de-jambes.
One, two, 
three, four, 
one, two, 
three, four,
one, two, 
three,
I want to go home now, 
I whisper.
Four.
We’ve only been here for fifteen minutes. 
Are you sure?
I nod.
OK, get ready to go.
I skip back to the kitchen and slip into my loafers, 
feeling tighter on my feet than before.
I grab my tote bag from the counter, 
not before running back to the fridge to scan it over again.
Do I need another can of soda?
I yell out
hurry up!
The Godfather theme song. 
It’ll be another five minutes, 
he yells back.
I sit back down at the counter.
Five minutes more. Twiddle your thumbs, Emilia.