Tipping Point - C. A. Winter


By C. A. Winter
Before the second drink slid down my throat I was a mess. Purely wretched, filled with diabolical malaise. Shaking like the West Coast and sweating like the Amazon. Thick, putrid drops of beaded ammonia slid down my wrinkled forehead and practically served as nature’s bitters; a splash or two in the gin won’t hurt anyone. The first one settled my fingers but didn’t do much as far as the brain was concerned. If anything, it made me more irritable. A taste of what I wanted turned my little demons feral. What a disgrace. And it’s only noon or so. 

I’m lurking in the kitchen in front of my father. He’s left a knife on the tipping point of the sink in case another peanut sandwich entices him. I’m shivering from my abstinence but I’m on my way. My hands are hot and the fridge cools them while I wait for him to pass. He surely heard me kick the freezer shut. That’s why he hasn’t said anything. Yellow mustard stares me down. Do I take a squirt to cover up the smell? Will he notice if I walk by without slugging down a mouthful of condiments? His nose isn’t sharp, never has been. I’d have been grounded more often as a teenager. Where’s the leftovers? Maybe my breath won’t make its way to the coffee pot. 

Pass the milk, he says, and shut the door if you’re not going to eat anything. 

I’m just looking for a snack, I reply, almond or regular?

Almond’s your moms. 

Alright, here you go. My hand extends as far as the sink and I duck back into the lower centigrade again. I can tell he’s looking at me through the insulation. Superman vision, MRI accuracy. 

You alright, he shuffles towards me.

Yeah, just hungry. 

We have crackers, he says, mom’s out shopping she’ll be back in an hour. His hand is on my back, and it’s going in circles. A bit handsy for the morning. 

I got it, thanks. I move deeper into the fridge and grab a yoghurt tub. Shrug my shoulder. Vanilla bean. Dad’s lurking still but against the island now. His flip flops dragging. Pass a spoon? I ask.

Sure. The drawer slips open and the mustard glares at me again next to the Caesar sauce. My right hand grazes the bottle but there’s not enough time. 

You sure you’re alright? He hands the spoon over. Our eyes do not meet.

Fine, yeah. The tub is full of spaghetti. Last week Tuesday. 

Might not want to eat that, dad suggests.

I dip my nose in to smell it, turn around. Is it bad? 

Toss it. Want a sandwich? His back is towards me. He’s reaching for a loaf on top of the microwave. His ankles are extended and his calves are flexed below his bathrobe. The knife tips into the sink and clatters on the drain. I jump. He laughs. What are you so shaky for? That spoon’s practically bent, you’re jittering so much. 

It scared me, that’s all.

You’ve been shaking and staring at the fridge since I came down here. Have sandwich, you’re probably hungry. 

Him, the mustard, and the stairs are gawking at me individually. Three options in front of me, but why are those the fucking options? Run, mask, or lean in. What’s he gonna say? What’s the harm in sitting with the man? He’s right, the spaghetti is rattling at a microwave level of vibration in my hand. And it’s not appealing; in fact, it stinks. I shut the door and toss the tub in the trash and sit at the island on the furthest barstool.

Coffee? 

I nod. 

Sandwich? The loaf is already open and there’s two plates out. 

I nod again, tap my fingers on the quartz. 

Grape or raspberry? He’s only got the grape out.

Raspberry. 

He stops his knife mid spread, holding peanut butter on the bread like a wave. Grape alright?

Sure.

*


Comments

  1. CsheinJanuary 22, 2026 at 9:25 AM

    Did the dad know the whole time, if he did, this is a striking show of affection. He may even see a reflection of himself in his son, talking as if to a ghost of his past, knowing all he has to be is an outstretched hand. The help he never got. Beautifully written.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Chase WinterJanuary 22, 2026 at 12:25 PM

      I kinda left it up to interpretation, but I imagined the father to know about his son's struggles.

      Delete

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