So it's Saturday night and I'm in the kitchen slicing tomatoes. My dad's over by the stove making fondue. I'm glad we're doing the cooking tonight, instead of his girlfriend, Nikita. Her stuff is lethal. I once ate some of her egg casserole, or fritatta, as she called it, and spent the week puking like clockwork. Not that I think my dad has bad taste in women. Nikita's a blonde bombshell. I don't know how old she is, but my dad said she's about eight or nine years younger than him, and he's pushing fifty right now. She doesn't look a day over thirty. But she's not just a Barbie; Nikita's the smartest woman I know. She knows all kinds of stuff, from academia to the downright bizarre. So does my dad, I guess. When they're together they have the weirdest conversations. How long have they been together? Seems like forever to me. My mother died when I was just a little kid. I don't remember much about her. Whenever I smell jasmine though, I think of her. I've seen pictures of her, she's beautiful too. After she died in a car crash, my dad started dating Nikita. It was a strange relationship from the start. You see, they're actually distant cousins, though they're not related by blood. For the first few years I seldom saw Nikita. You see, when I was ten, my dad sent me to a boarding school in England. Come Christmas or Easter, I come home to Paris, and Nikita would celebrate the holidays with us, usually. Her job keeps her globe hopping, so there are times when she can't make it. So I rarely saw her when I was younger. However, a year ago, Nikita began to scale back on her job so she could spend more time with my dad. And me, I guess. It's funny, but I can't really see Nikita as a maternal figure for me. She wasn't always there when I was growing up. She's more of an aunt, which, technically, I guess, she is.

"Adam," my dad says, looking up from the fondue, "set the table."

I nod and pick up a stack of dishes. That's my dad. Authoritarian to the extreme. Yeah, he's polite and has manners and all that, but he's also used to giving out orders and having people obey him. That's because he used to be CEO of some big business firm. Now he works as a private computer consultant.

I quickly line up the utensils in their appropriate places. We're listening to a CD of cello music, Faure's Elegie. Very sad piece. It matches my dad's morose mood right now. My dad's rarely ecstatic. It's not like he suffers from depression, but you can tell he's got a chip on his shoulder. He's a quiet man, and he never likes to talk about his past. I've only been able to piece together a little bit of his history. It's not a pretty picture.

He doesn't talk much about his family either. Both my grandparents are dead. I sometimes think maybe my dad's childhood was pretty rotten and that's why he doesn't like to talk about it. Maybe that's why he always tried to be there for me when I was a kid. You see, when I was younger we traveled a lot. I don't think we spent more than three months in the same place. My dad home schooled me, and it seems like, back then, we were always together. It was only when I turned ten that my dad decided I should try to have some solid friends that were around my own age. So he settled down, and sent me to boarding school. At first it was hard to be away from him, but I'm glad he finally chose some place to settle down in. Ever since he chose to live in Paris he's become more, how should I describe it? Content. Yeah, that's the word.

"Don't forget the bread," says my dad.

"Do you think we have enough?" I ask.

He nods. Like I said, he's a man of few words. Though, come to think of it, so am I. I don't talk that much either, but I love to write. Someday I want to be a writer. My dad's really encouraged me too. During summer holidays, he always takes me on these fantastic trips. Monaco, Rome, New York, Beijing, you name it. And he always tells me to make a travelogue. I write short stories about all the places we've visited and he reads them and tells me how I can improve my writing. I have a problem with run-on sentences. My dad's actually French, but he has a surprising command of English grammar. Besides French, he also speaks, like, five other languages. Nikita's Australian, but she knows German, and she tries to speak French, but I have a hard time not laughing when she does try. I go to school in England, but my French is still better than hers is. English is the one language the three of us speak when we're together.

The doorbell rings, and I jog toward our apartment door. I quickly glance at our security monitor before swinging the door open to reveal a rather breathless, slightly flustered blonde.

"Hello Adam!" Nikita breezes in, her smile lighting up the room like a chandelier. "Sorry I'm late, I had the hardest time getting through rush hour traffic.

"Happy Sweet Sixteen!" she gives me a smacking kiss on the cheek and I feel my face redden.

"Thanks," I hear myself grunt. She thrusts a brightly wrapped package into my arms and I find myself gazing down at her neon blue pointy-heeled shoes. Are they called stilettos? They're so bright I wonder if they glow in the dark. That's Nikita, she'd glow during a total eclipse. That's what makes her so different from my dad I guess. They're a good balance in that way. The cynic and the optimist. I glance at the rest of her outfit. Her funky dress is a stone's throw away from haute couture and she looks fantastic as usual. My dad says she prefers bright colors because she has to wear dark suits all the time whenever she's working.

"Michael!" she gushes. They share one of their looks.

"Uh, I'll go check on dinner," I say, hastily making my exit stage right.

I knew the room would be heating up by the second.

So we eat dinner, and Nikita chatters on and on about this and that and I know my dad's enjoying every minute of her prattling. I can tell even though he doesn't smile, because his green eyes have that knowing sparkle. During our three-course meal, he doesn't say much, as usual, but I get the feeling that he and Nikita are communicating somehow telepathically. I tell Nikita about school and my hockey team and how I spent the day celebrating my birthday by going on a fishing trip with my buddies. She nods and asks all the right questions. I know worms, along with rats, make her squeamish, but she still acts like she's interested in my descriptions of my fishing technique. She's a great listener.

Afterwards, we're lounging around the living room. I've just opened Nikita's present. It's a blue sweater she knitted. The left sleeve is two inches longer than the right one, but I love it and I tell her so. She beams and claps her hands when I slip the sweater on. Next I open my dad's gift. It's a hardcover volume of French poetry.

"Thanks dad," I say. I want to give him a hug, but I hesitate because I am sixteen now. He stands up and hugs me anyway. I close my eyes and remember how he used to hold my hand when I was younger. One particular memory always sticks out. It's one where my dad and I are in a train station, and he's saying good-bye to Nikita. I remember I smiled at her, but she looked so sad. I put my hand into my dad's and he led me away. I remember looking back at her, and seeing that there were tears running down her face. I don't remember why she was crying, but it was probably because she wasn't going to see my dad for awhile.

I really don't know exactly what Nikita does for a living, but I know it's really important. She tells me she works for the government, and I guess she must do some top-secret work or something. I really don't know because she doesn't talk about it. I do know that whenever she gets a call on her cell phone, she has to leave for work right away, no matter what.

I step away from my dad and give him a small smile of thanks for the book. I only see him four months out of the year since he stays in Paris while I'm away at school. But he makes the time we spend together seem like an eternity. I do love my dad, despite his gruffness and almost detached demeanor.

"Kita, I have your sunglasses which you left behind last time," he says. "It's in my room, wait one minute, I'll go get it."

"I'll go with you," says Nikita.

I shake my head and settle down on the couch. I know what they're going to do, so I decide to get started on my holiday homework. Bloody hell, I don't even want to think about what they're doing!

It's an hour later when I'm mulling over Whitman's Leaves of Grass when they finally come out of the bedroom. I avert my eyes from Nikita's tousled hair and my dad's slightly rumpled clothing.

"Thank you for dinner, Michael," she says.

She ruffles my head. "Good luck tomorrow," she says, referring to the hockey game that I'll be playing in. "Remember to tape your ankle."

"I'll be okay," I say.

"I noticed you were limping tonight," she says.

"I'm fine," I assure her.

A dark shadow passes over her features. I swallow hard, wondering what I did wrong. Suddenly she smiles ruefully and pecks me on the cheek.

"Good night, Adam."

"Night," I grunt. "Thanks again for the sweater."

Michael helps her with her coat and they exchange a few private words by the door.

She leaves and I can almost see the sparkle diminishing in my dad's eyes.

"So she's going to be gone for awhile?" I ask.

"Istanbul," my dad says. He rubs his lower lip, a tired gesture.

"I can clean up down here," I offer.

"Thank you," he says.

He starts to leave the room, but pauses.

"Happy birthday, Adam."

"Thanks dad."

I watch him head off.

I finish drying the dishes as the last strains of his cello begin to die off. Sometimes he does that, plays his cello late into the night. I'll go to sleep listening to him play. It's a clear, starry night, so I go out onto the balcony. I breathe in the night air. It's so beautiful here in Paris. I hear myself sniffle and quickly swipe at my face with the sleeve of the sweater Nikita gave me. Funny how, even at sixteen, there are still times when I know I have every reason to be happy, but I feel like crying.

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