Micro-Fiction by Ocean

“Daaadd! Can you make me some hot cocoa?” I yell from upstairs.

His old apartment is something different. A dark bluish gray color on the outside and just as unhappy and blue on the inside. He’s sad, I’m sad, we’re all sad. I don’t know why I bother to ask him to make me hot cocoa. It tastes more like hot water but I ask anyway and pretend to enjoy it. I hear him rustling around in the kitchen and hear the Beep! Beep! Beep! on the microwave. That’s my cue. I run downstairs. These aren’t regular stairs, they twist in the slightest almost to say that our lives will be spiraling down hill. When I get to the bottom of the stairs and see him, I smile. He’s six feet and one inch tall. His hazel colored eyes, dirty blonde hair and crooked teeth are hard to not smile at. I’m glad the smile makes an appearance when I’m around. I grab my “hot cocoa” and run back upstairs. I take a sip or two or three and wait awhile. As I’ve done numerous times, I walk into the bathroom and pour it down the sink. "Thanks for the hot cocoa, Dad! It was delicious!”

He still doesn’t know how bad his hot cocoa really tasted. It’s the thought that counts because I know he always tried his best.