The Paper

Holding my light computer with only two of my fingers, I sit down at the bar top we have in the lounge, I can tell this is serious. If a look could kill... My father pauses, and then checks back to see if my mom is out of earshot. I know I am dead, I know I can't do anything about it, I regret the endless hours of procrastination already, and I await my demise.I brace expecting the worst(figured out over the years that when you expect the worst all the time, the second to worst feels much better) He doesn't sigh, scream, or shout, he just pulls out the paper, and unfolds it, it's an email and oh...
Oh shit.
I am so screwed, I await a hail of arguments about how I spend too much time goofing off, a hail of shouts shot straight at me.
But there are none.
"Fix this, and I won't tell your mother about it"
I love my dad.
Especially when he knows exactly what I need to survive.