Weekend freewrite. Thanks to @mariannewest.

Greta thought that she was going to a year-round playground, Xavier knew better.
Xavier knew dad wasn't going to show.

He had lost count of how many times he had sat on this little garden wall, dressed in his best T-shirt and hat, watching for Dad's car, and counting the bricks.

He knew exactly how many bricks there were. In fact he had counted all the walls and cracks in pavers, and light posts. He would count the colours of the cars that would go by too, there were always more white, then silver, then blue. Dad's car was red.

Xavier would pinched himself really hard in the tummy when he saw a red one, sometimes it would help to stop the butterflies from flapping around in there. Every car that approached, his tummy would tighten, then as it passed it would flip and churn.

Xavier was angry with himself, with his own tummy, for still going flip flop at the sound of cars. He would get so angry sometimes that his tummy would get all twisted with butterflies.

Mum would call him inside when it got dark and do her pretend smiling face, it was too big and didn't match the rest of her. Then she would always say,
"Change of plans were going to have a TV party,"

and that it was his turn to choose from any home delivery. He could even have nutella pizza on a no dad night. Mum hardly ever let him have nutella pizza.

But all the dead butterflies felt too yucky in there. How could he eat with a tummy full of broken twisted butterfly wings.

The fact that dad sometimes did turn up, that occasionally they did go to a playground, or more likely go with dad on his "deliveries," made not believing even harder. Maybe today was one of those days.

Xavier thought that having a "Sometimes dad" was worse than having no dad. His friend Billy didn't have a dad, I bet he is doing something fun with his Mum today. Xavier's Mum just stood at the window looking angry and then waving with her pretend smile on when she saw that he was looking.

---

Albert's hair was the color of poached Salmon.

When he finally pulled up in his ridiculous convertible, Cheryl was ready to wrap her hands around his throat and throttle him.

Watching her children sit and hope, week after week was heart breaking.

Of course she never did throttle him, just thought about it a lot. Not nearly as much as she thought about ways of throttling herself, that thought was so strong sometimes and seemed to come out of nowhere, it frightened her.

She would never do that either, for the very same reason, her kids. She was just so sick of the choking feeling in her throat, like a scream that was stuck, or words that were never spoken.

She had cancelled Xavier's ballet and Greta's cricket, so they could spend time with their dad. He never thought of anyone but himself.

The sight of Albert and.... what's her name? and their ridiculous pale pink hair, flapping in the wind, instantly diffused the tension.

A laugh galloped out of Cheryl, the likes of which she hadn't mustered in years.
"She must have had a little extra left in the bottle and splashed it over him too." Cheryl bellowed in amusement to no-one but herself.

Doubled over at the window, everytime she came up for air and spotted his ridiculous pink thinning side hair that he appeared to be growing to match the severely cropped bob, albeit minus the bangs, that sat next to him, out rolled another howl of laughter.

Albert was clearly still using the last of his obliging charming act, it must have been torturous for him. He clearly wasn't rocking it with confidence now either. As he reached for his cap she snatched it away with a snarl as the poor silly bastard crept out of the car, attempting to flatten the wind blown side fluff. As though patting it down would somehow camouflage the pinkness.

Cheryl imagined him wearing his own variation of a forced smile through gritting of teeth and perhaps even breaking off one of his shiny porcelain veneers, as What's her name, lathered on the peroxide. The very same look was plastered on him now as he feigned an unsuccessful confidant swagger. It was just the medicine she needed to cure her of her own ruminations.

---

She was coming home drunk.
"I'm not coming back til I'm smashed!"
Once again Cheryl bellowed into an empty house. As the cat escaped out the flap on the back door she reaffirmed her commitment.

"Yes, damn it! I'm hitting the town and I am not holding back!"

Cheryl had been invited to an 80s themed party that her work friends had been planning for weeks. She had not committed herself to going, as she was never sure if Albert would turn up.

She watched and waved as the kid's squeezed themselves, their sleeping bags and their weekend backpacks into the back of the tiny convertible.
The front seat was flipped forward with Alberts latest still insitu. As Xavier climbed in he appeared to leaned against the front seat with an unnecessary forceful intent. Her face pressed up against the dash board and pink hair out of place, for just a moment she resembled a squashed troll doll. Cheryl knew she shouldn't take pleasure in such behaviour, but she couldn't help herself.

With Albert back behind the wheel, the car spluttered down the road. With the wind blowing and the top down they really did look like a ridiculous pair of troll dolls.

The weekend lay ahead and it was Her's for the taking. Eighties theme? It still amazed Cheryl that the millennials she worked with considered the eighties and nineties retro cool, but oh well.

With thoughts of troll dolls still fresh in her mind, Cheryl recalled her own favourite childhood doll.
She headed for the kids dress up box.
"Let him have his troll, just for tonight I will be Rainbow Bright."

The cat who had poked her nose back inside the door, decided better of it and quietly retreated.
She would wait until the coast was clear. She too had plans to claim the rare empty house and the weekend for herself.

---

Above Images thanks to pixabay.