Flight

Easy now... almost there...

He bit his lower lip and tried to keep his hand steady. The paintbrush quivered, and as it touched the wing of the 1:500 scale Spitfire, it left a brown blob right next to where he intended to have the brown blob. In fact, it left a brown blob right where he had put the R.A.F. sticker yesterday. It was supposed to be a quick touch-up. Just a little dab of paint where he’d missed a spot when he painted on the camouflage two weeks ago. And now, the fucking sticker read R.blotch.F. “You son of a bitch. Fly then.” A grunt left his throat as he hurled the little airplane at the fridge, took off his glasses and laid his forehead on the table. He felt the cool squish of paint above his right eyebrow, and thought about how good it was to have a relaxing hobby. Everyone should have a hobby. The old familiar feeling of powerlessness washed over him, and he almost cried with frustration.

Calm down... count to ten... you can’t lose it over a stupid model airplane. Just breathe.

“Honey, what was that noise?” She peered around the corner wearing her little frown. The one she had before she knew whether to be worried or not. It was lovely - that little frown.
He didn’t lift his head from the table, “Oh, that was the Spitfire. Great birthday gift, by the way, it really did help me relax. Flew beautifully.”
“You okay?” Now the worried frown appeared.
“Just peachy, thanks.” Can’t she see what a loser I am?
“Don’t you give me attitude. Now tell me what the hell is wrong.”
His voice droned at her, muffled by the table “Baby, look at me. I’m pushing fifty... and look at me. I’m such a fuck-up”
“Well, Mr. Fuck-up. Your child is waiting for you to tuck her in.”

“Da-aaad! You’ve got paint on your head! You’re so silly.”
He lay down next to her, lifted his arm and let her head rest on his chest. It was such a natural movement, neither of them even knew it happened.
“Mom’s gonna shout at you! No shoes on the bed!”
“Hey! I’m also a parent, so I’ll put my feet wherever I want,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratory tone, “just don’t tell your mom, okay?”
As she giggled, his sense of power slowly returned to him. He would rebuild the stupid plane. But he wouldn’t need it to fly.