sadar.

It’s Sunday in the Opus household, and M.P. is vexed with her father.
Not all of summer recess can be beautiful.

Coggs Opus is a difficult man to reckon with.
His grasp of argument is iron-clad,
and he’s not given to the premature release of that which he captures.

M.P. exhales at him over toast and orange juice.
Serenely applying a thick layer of marmalade to his slice, he acknowledges her displeasure with a steady glance.

“Yes?”

She stages a mini mental chess game to judge the potential outcome of an altercation.
Conclusion: she will not be named victor.

Another sigh.
Loaded.

“Nothing.”

He returns to chewing, infallible.