Текст книги "Futures and Frosting"
Автор книги: Tara Sivec
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)
15. Just Say No to Necrophilia
When my foreman had told me I could take the night off, I didn’t even take a breath or say a word to anyone. My work bag is slung over my shoulder and I'm racing through the plant before the guy even finishes his sentence. Being two people short, with Jim still on his honeymoon and Drew taking a vacation day, it's a rare thing to still have enough people to send someone home. There is no way I'm going to give anyone a chance to change their minds. All I can think about is going to see Claire.
Too many thoughts have been running through my head all week and I just want to put my arms around her and get some reassurance that everything is okay between us. She’s been saying some really strange things ever since Liz and Jim’s wedding, and I can’t stop thinking about them.
Does she really think marriage is stupid? Maybe her idea of happiness isn’t settling down with someone for the rest of her life. It’s not like her parents have given her any kind of good examples of finding the one you're meant to be with and spending forever loving them. They change spouses more than Drew changes his underwear. But I see her get misty eyed more than once while watching a wedding or a proposal on television when she thinks I'm not looking so I don’t think she's completely opposed to the concept.
Shit, maybe it's just me she opposed to. Maybe she just doesn’t want to marry me. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. Everything about her makes me happier than I have ever been in my life. Becoming a father overnight is something I never thought I wanted but now know I can never live without. Ever since the wedding this past weekend, all I can think about is the way Claire looked standing in the middle of the dance floor holding that bouquet of flowers she had just caught.
There had been a sparkle in her eyes and a smile on her face that lit up the room. It made me wish that it was our wedding we were at and that it was our celebration of love. I actually reached into my pocket to pull out the ring I always carried with me and panicked when I didn’t feel it in there. It took me a minute to realize I decided right before we walked out of the house that morning to leave it at home. I had been to enough weddings with Drew to know that there would be break dancing and tuxedo jackets swung around and didn’t want to chance losing the ring. After the way she reacted when she only thought Drew and Jenny might be getting engaged at the rehearsal dinner, I was glad I’d left the ring at home. Standing there and staring at her with a wedding bouquet in her hand had almost forced me to do something she’d hate, and I'd have no control over if that ring was in my pocket.
Claire seems genuinely happy, aside from the past few days and the weird, off-the-wall comments she makes about marriage. Could it be that seeing her best friends get married has made her realize she’ll never have that for herself? She's watching porn in the middle of the night by herself while I'm at work. That’s either the sign of the apocalypse or I'm just not doing it for her. Jesus, maybe I need to up my game. She shouldn’t be watching porn alone unless I’m not enough for her.
Am I not enough for her? WHY AREN’T I ENOUGH FOR HER? Why can’t she be happy with me instead of lusting after some actor on the television? Why, God, why? It’s not like those men are real anyway. Everything about them is fake, including their six pack abs and horse cocks. And seriously, who needs that much cock? Maybe she’s watching those men wishing I could learn some of those tricks. But come on, give me a break. No one is that bendy or has that much stamina. That’s what film editing is for. She probably thinks it’s not cheating since all she’s doing is watching them on TV but God dammit, she’s cheating with her MIND.
Oh my Jesus. I think I just grew a vagina.
I have to believe that if Claire is really that unhappy with me or my sexual prowess, she'd say something. Chicks like to tell you all the time what you’re doing wrong, don’t they? Why would Claire be any different? I’m acting like a giant pussy over this. We’re fine, she’s fine, I love her more than anything in the world, and I WILL make this proposal happen. Enough with the chicken shit stuff.
I try calling Claire on the way out of work to see if she's still at the shop but her phone goes straight to voicemail. When I drive through town I see that her car is still parked out in front of the building, so I pull around back and go in through the back door that brings me into the kitchen.
The sight before me leaves me speechless and confused. I really don’t’ know where to look first. There is chocolate splattered everywhere and as I take a step into the room, something covered in chocolate dripped down from the ceiling in front of me and lands by my foot with a plop.
It's dead silent in the room which is my first clue that something is off; Claire always has music playing in the kitchen when she works.
Actually, my first inclination that something isn’t quiet right is seeing Jenny sitting in the sink crying. My eyes pass right over Drew lying on his stomach on the floor lapping up a puddle of chocolate like a dog. That’s not something I haven’t seen before unfortunately.
Since Jenny is closest to me, I start with her.
“Hey, what’s going on? Why are you crying? More importantly, why are you crying in the sink?” I ask her as I reach in and scoop her out of the big, stainless steel commercial sink like a baby. It takes a few minutes to steady her once I get her on her feet. She clutches onto my shoulders and stares up at me.
“I think Drew ate Claire,” she whispers. “She was sitting here a minute ago and then Drew said he was hungry and now she’s gone. He ate four batches of chocolate chip cookies and one batch of Claire.”
Jesus God what the fuck is going on?
I gently push Jenny away from me until her back is leaning up against the counter and I am certain she won’t fall. Turning around, I stare at the mess that has transformed this sparkling clean kitchen into a chocolate nightmare.
Are those chocolate covered Twinkies stuck to the wall?
I gingerly step around small puddles of melted chocolate on the floor, careful not to slip and fall, and make my way over to Drew who has given up sucking chocolate off of the floor and is now curled up in the fetal position asleep.
“Hey, ASSHOLE!” I yell. “Wake up!” I shove the toe of my shoe into his stomach and push until he rolls over onto his back and lazily opens his eyes to look at me.
“Duuuuuuuuude,” he says on an exhale of breath.
“Don’t dude me. What the fuck happened here? Claire sent me a text a few hours ago that you were going to help her frost cookies. Why does it look like a bomb exploded?”
Drew blinks a few times and shakes his head to clear out the cobwebs or whatever the fuck is in his brain right now sucking out all of the functioning parts.
“Help me up so I can think,” Drew says as he sticks his arm up towards me.
I shake my head in annoyance, grab onto his hand and yank him up off of the floor.
“You’re hands are so soft. Do you moisturize?” Drew questions as he pets the top of my hand like a kitten.
I rip my hand out of his grip and smack him upside the head.
“Cocksucker! Pay attention!”
Drew rubs the back of his head and glares at me.
“Don’t get your panties all in a twist. Claire is in her office. She’s fine. Her dad is in there with her.”
Okay, so it can’t be that bad if George is here.
I leave Drew with Jenny so I can go in search of Claire. Jenny isn’t going to stop crying until she sees Claire with her own eyes and realizes she hasn’t been eaten.
Only in MY life would those words make perfect sense.
Claire and Liz share an office and it is situated right in the middle of their connecting stores. They each have a door that leads into the office. It's really no bigger than a walk-in closet. It houses a computer table and chair, a loveseat, and two metal filing cabinets. I walk over to the closed door and press my ear against it trying to figure out if Claire and her father are in some deep discussion while all hell breaks loose in her kitchen. I’m pretty sure her father still plots fun and exciting ways to kill me so there is no way I'm going to interrupt them if that's the case. I don’t hear anything so I turn the knob and slowly open the door.
I had to do a double-take when I see George curled up in a ball on the loveseat. How he had managed to get his six foot frame wedged in between the arms of that thing I will never know. I decide to let sleeping dogs lie for the moment and turn in a full circle, my eyes finally coming to rest on Claire.
She's sitting on the floor behind the door with her knees pulled up to her chest. She has a spatula in one hand held out from her body with chocolate frosting dripping off of it and what looks like Drew’s iPhone pressed up against the wall with her other hand. Her eyes are glassy and vacant as she stares off into space, never once blinking as I walk up to her and crouch down in front of her.
I don’t know what I'm dealing with here so I speak in a soft, calming voice. “Hey there, Claire. How are you doing sweetie?”
She moans in response, but still doesn’t blink.
I look over my shoulder and see George is still fast asleep. Obviously he isn’t going to be any help here.
“Can you tell me what happened here tonight?”
Another moan coupled with a bit of a whimper. Still no blinking.
How long can someone go without blinking before they go blind?
I feel like I walked into a horror movie and found the sole survivor of a serial killer rampage. I'm afraid to say the wrong thing for fear I’ll spook her and will never get to the bottom of the truth.
“I ate cookies,” she finally mutters.
“Wow, that’s great, sweetie,” I tell her kindly.
I don’t really know if that’s great or not but at least she has ingested something that will sop up whatever it is that's turned these guys into chocolate covered zombies.
“I don’t want to feel this anymore,” she says in a pitiful voice. “Make it stop.”
Maybe I should try and get her to throw up. Should I stick my fingers down her throat? I’ve never done that before. Not even to myself. I’ve only ever tried to make Drew throw up, and usually all I have to do is talk about his grandmother having sex.
I reach over and take the dripping spatula out of her hand and set it on the floor. I do the same with Drew’s cell phone, flipping it over first and noticing it's set to the BIC Lighter app, the fake flame flickering back and forth on the screen.
“Honey, why are you holding Drew’s phone against the wall?”
“I wanted to make hot. Stupid fight wouldn’t lire. Flight wouldn’t flier. Fire wouldn’t fire. Fire. Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire-”
Sweet Jesus.
I slide an arm between Claire’s back and the wall and bring her forward so she's leaning over her bent knees. Hoping she won’t hate me for this or bite me, I push my finger passed her lips and into her mouth. She blinks then and looks up at me, trying to focus on my face. My finger is in her mouth but she won’t open her lips, they just stay wrapped around my finger while she squints and tries to see me better.
I wiggle my hand and try to push my finger in further. Her throat has to be in there somewhere. If I can just get back there far enough I'm sure she will puke.
“Come on, Claire. Open up wider. I can’t get it in.”
I grunt with the effort of holding her up and trying to get the knuckle of my first finger past her teeth.
“Don’t bite me. You’ll feel much better after this is done, I promise. I’ve done this a bunch of times, just let me in.”
Either she isn’t hearing me or she doesn’t care. I move my hand around her mouth and try every angle I can but she just won’t open her mouth so I could reach her throat. Her tongue presses against the tip of my finger preventing it from moving.
“Claire, don’t be difficult,” I groan. “I need to do this deeper.”
Claire bites down on my finger at the same time I feel a hand slap down on my shoulder.
I yank my finger out of her mouth and whip my head around and up to find George towering over me with his hands on his hips and a glare on his face.
“Carter,” George greets.
“Hi, Mr. Morgan,” I say as cheerfully as possible, considering he's looking at me like I'm a bug he's getting ready to squash under his shoe.
“Have you seen my shotgun?” he asks.
I gulp loudly and try to remember all of the reasons it would be bad to piss my pants right then. Under normal circumstances, I'm quite used to the death stares and silent threats I receive from Claire’s dad, but this seems a little excessive. I'm trying to save his daughter’s life. How can he possible be angry with me about that? He had been asleep on the couch two seconds ago. He must have opened his eyes and seen me...
You’ll feel much better once this is done. Don’t be difficult, I need to do this deeper. Just let me in…
Oh sweet Jesus. He had probably looked across the room and saw just the back of me trying to force something in his daughter’s mouth.
Why the hell couldn’t Rachel have been the one here tonight? She would have woken up and cheered me on, probably even booing me when she found out I was only trying to make her daughter puke instead of forcing my penis in her mouth.
“I am NOT into Necrophilia,” I state firmly to him.
“There is something wrong with you,” he mutters.
“I just wanted her to throw up,” I complain.
“I really don’t want to know about the weird, kinky shit you’re into.”
“Yo, Mr. Morgan, you’re awake!” Drew exclaims as he lounges in the doorway. “And Carter, dude, it’s called Poutiphilia. You just told Claire’s dad you weren’t into banging dead people. Which is a good thing, but probably not what you were going for. Poutiphilia is a person who enjoys sexual relations with people who are passed out.”
Drew is a walking, talking Urbandictionary dot com.
“I was NOT trying to have sexual relations with this woman!” I shout.
“Slow your roll there, Clinton,” Drew says as he came further into the room and squats down next to me.
“HOW ARE YOU DOING, CLAIRE?” Drew yells, talking to her slow and loud like she doesn’t understand English. “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”
He snaps his fingers in front of her face a few times. She finally blinks and looks up at me.
“Make it stop,” she whines.
I'm not sure if she is referring to Drew or whatever is in her system. I decide to err on the side of caution and punch Drew in the arm.
“What the fuck did you give her?”
“Just some cookies. My mom makes them for my uncle all the time and he loves them,” Drew tells me.
“Did you guys get food poisoning or something? Why the hell is this place such a disaster and Claire is almost comatose?”
I briefly wonder if I should try again to make her puke, but I'm a little afraid George really does have a shotgun hidden somewhere in the room.
“Claire wanted some help coming up with some new ideas for things to cover in chocolate. It was a process. A creative process. You wouldn’t understand. It’s an artistic thing,” Drew explains. “Chocolate covered carrots were a bust, but we might have something with chocolate covered gummy bears.”
This still doesn’t make any sense. I'm obviously missing something.
“So you guys ate some cookies and brainstormed. What kind of cookies did you eat? Were they undercooked?”
Maybe Claire has Salmonella poisoning. Is that contagious? Does she need to be vaccinated or have her stomach pumped? I feel like I should know the answer to this since I have a kid. What if Gavin eats some raw chicken and I don’t know whether to give him mouth-to-mouth or Pepto Bismol? Is he even allowed to have Pepto? And where the fuck is he getting raw chickens from?!
“Dude, I’m not Betty fucking Crocker or anything. I don’t know what was in the cookies. They were mocha coffee nut something or other. Wait, maybe it was the nuts. Is Claire allergic to nuts? She might be going into anal flaccid shock,” Drew says nervously.
Oh my God. It’s like he shares a brain with Jenny.
“It’s Anaphylaxis Shock, dumbass, and no, she’s not allergic to nuts,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
“My uncle begs my mom for these cookies. Seriously. They actually STOP him from getting sick so this makes absolutely no sense. My mom makes them for him every couple of weeks before he goes in for chemo.”
I stare at him blankly and repeat in my head the words that just came out of his mouth just to make sure I'm not hallucinating.
“Jesus fucking Christ! You gave her POT COOKIES???
I whip my head around and stare at George in disbelief.
“YOU ate a pot cookie?” I ask incredulously.
“I was in Nam,” he huffs like that's sufficient enough evidence this is perfectly okay. “Where’s my grandson?”
I stare at him in wonder for a few minutes, realizing (not for the first time) that Claire’s father is the epitome of the saying “The man, the myth, the legend”. While everyone else has been one step away from bath-salts-crazy, George has curled up on the couch and slept off his pot cookie high.
“Gavin is with my parents for the night. They’re in town for a wedding and are keeping him overnight at their hotel so he can swim in the pool,” I explain as I tighten my hold on Claire and help her stand up.
“I’m hungry,” Claire announces to no one in particular as she suddenly regains the use of all of her faculties and pushes away from me. Her eyes are bright and clear as she walks out of the office, squeezing her way past Drew, like nothing is wrong.
“Well, it looks like the problem is solved thanks to me. Claire now has a new item to put on her menu and rave about tomorrow during her magazine interview,” Drew states proudly.
“She’s not putting pot cookies on the menu,” I tell him with a shake of my head as we all amble out of the office. “It’s illegal.”
“You’re a real buzz kill, you know that?” Drew complains.
16. Son of a Face Turd
“I eat my poop.”
“Drew, I swear to God if you don’t stop playing with that fucking computer, I’m going to shove it up your ass,” I threaten as I finished chiseling the last bit of chocolate off of the walls of the shop kitchen.
Drew has recently learned how to turn on text-to-speech in Microsoft Excel. Everything he types into a box on the spreadsheet is repeated back to him in a computerized voice. He had stopped by my shop first thing this morning under the guise of helping me clean but instead has spent the majority of his time making the computer say random, stupid shit.
“I like to touch boobs,” the monotone, computerized voice announces.
“Boobs, boobs, boobies, boobs. I like boobies.”
Drew sticks his head out of my office a few seconds later and smiles.
“Claire Bear, do you have a pot hangover?”
I growl as I throw the dirty rag into the sink and turn on the tap to wash my hands of the sticky mess they’d become since I started cleaning up the mess we made of the kitchen the previous night.
“After what you did to me last night, you’re lucky I’m not shoving a spatula in your eye.
I turn off the water and dry my hands on the towel next to the sink. When I look back over my shoulder to throw another insult at Drew, he isn’t there.
“Claire has an angry vagina.”
I roll my eyes and take one last look around the kitchen to make sure I haven’t missed a spot. In hindsight, I should know better than to eat anything Drew gives me. He always looks guilty and says stupid shit though, so when he hands me the cookie and tells me to “Eat the entire thing or else,” I don’t think twice. All I had wanted was a nice, quiet evening of brainstorming and keeping my mind off of anything to do with weddings and marrying the man of my dreams.
Be careful what you wish for.
I had woken up this morning with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I did something stupid. I rolled over and found Carter sitting on the edge of the bed staring at me.
“I was just getting ready to stick a mirror under your nose to make sure you were still breathing,” Carter said with a laugh as he stood up from the bed and walked over to the dresser to put on his watch and stick his wallet in his back pocket.
“What the fuck did I do last night?” I groaned with a raspy, morning after voice.
“Which part exactly are you referring to? Eating an entire pot cookie or redecorating the shop by painting the walls with chocolate?”
“Okay, first of all, I didn’t KNOW it was a pot cookie until after I took the first bite and second…I don’t know. I have no excuse for the rest of it,” I trailed off.
“If you knew it was a pot cookie after the first bite, why in the hell would you keep eating it?” Carter asked with a chuckle as I scooted up in bed until I could sit against the headboard.
“Why wouldn’t I eat it? The damage was already done. And it was a delicious cookie.”
Carter shook his head at me and sighed.
“Claire, you are only supposed to eat a little bit of a pot cookie, never the entire thing at once.”
He stared at me like I was an idiot and this was clearly something everyone knew.
“How in the fuck am I supposed to know something like that? Do I look like the type of person who goes around eating pot cookies all the time?” I asked angrily.
“Everyone knows this. I’ve never eaten a pot cookie, and I still know the rules.”
“The rules? Is there a Pot Cookie 101 class I missed or something? It’s not like the fucking thing came with an owner’s manual. I was handed a cookie, and I ate a cookie. Who in their right mind only takes one bite of a cookie and then puts the rest back for later?” I demanded.
“Someone who eats a pot cookie,” Carter deadpanned.
After I had showered and dressed, I left the house with an obvious bug up my ass.
And now my magazine interview is in an hour and the only things surrounding me are bad, hallucinogenic ideas – chocolate covered gummy bears, pickles, moon pies, M&M’s, every Little Debbie snack treat imaginable from Twinkies to Swiss Rolls, and a computer printed picture of Drew’s hand covered in chocolate. Trays of chocolate covered crap litter the counters, and I berate myself for all of those hours we spent NOT coming up with a good idea. At least Drew manages to frost all two-hundred cookies for the order that's being picked up today. It makes my hatred for him go down just a tiny bit.
“The peanut butter on your cock is delicious.”
“DREW!” I yell again in warning.
“Sorry!” he yells back, trying to mask his giggles.
“Cock, the other white meat.”
I open my mouth to scream another threat at Drew, this one to his manhood, when an idea strikes.
I glance at the clock and quickly rush around the kitchen, grabbing the ingredients I need. While I wait for the chocolate to melt, I grab a small, white packaging box from under the counter. I prepare it by adding a sheet of pink tissue paper inside to line the box and affix a “Seduction and Snacks” sticker to the outside. I watch the clock out of the corner of my eye as I get down to business, crossing my fingers, toes, and even my legs that this idea would work.
Thirty minutes later I finish placing the last of the new candy inside the box, seal the lid closed, tie a neat, pink and white ribbon around it, and grab my purse from under the counter.
“Drew, I’m leaving. Don’t forget to go next door and wait for Liz’s delivery so you can sign for it,” I yell to him as I head to the front door to make sure the “Closed” sign is in place. I have about twenty minutes now to run home, pick up Gavin, and drive to the meeting spot. The magazine adamantly insists that I bring Gavin with me. This magazine interviewes people due to customer recommendations. Customers write into the magazine and suggest businesses they believe should be spotlighted for one reason or another.
The magazine had done some research, made some calls, and for whatever reason decided “Seduction and Snacks” needed a write up. When the magazine called to set up the interview, they told Jenny that the customers raved not only about the sweets we sold but also about the owner’s mouthy little son that ran around the store and made everyone laugh. It had been a toss-up on whether or not I should be horrified by this or happy that Gavin’s penchant for swear words and constant talk about his wiener was finally doing something good in the world.
It's still hard to wrap my head around the fact that our businesses had taken off so quickly. Never underestimate the need for sugar and sex in small-town-America. With one last look around the darkened store to make sure everything is in order, I step outside to the faint sound of the computer speaking one last Drew-initiated command.
“Son of a face turd, you whore. Touch my taint and tickle my balls.”
~
I walk into Playland McDonalds with butterflies flapping in my stomach and my hand clutched tightly around Gavin’s.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’ve done a few phone interviews since we opened and those had been a piece of cake. Maybe it's the fact that I’ve never done something like this with my son right next to me – my lovely son who likes to talk to random strangers about his poop.
This will be fine. No big deal. Just a couple of questions. Easy peasy.
“Remember, best behavior,” I remind Gavin as we make our way through the crowded restaurant to a booth in the back. I can see the interviewer already seated with her laptop open on the table. We make eye contact and she gives me a wave.
“I want to play in the playland,” Gavin whines.
“You will, as soon as the interview is over.”
“That’s dumb,” he mutters.
“Too bad. Be good and you can get a Happy Meal.”
“Can I have pop too?” he asks.
I pause, contemplating his request. Being a parent is tough, especially when it comes to negotiations. You don’t want your kids to think they can have whatever they ask for, but you also don’t want them to tell the interviewer of a national magazine that their nuts smell like cheese and it’s because she’s so ugly. Pick your battles, people.
“Yes, you can have pop. If you’re good.”
We arrive at the table and introductions are made. I direct Gavin in first so he can sit by the window and then slide in next to him.
“Hi, Gavin, my name is Lisa. I love your shirt,” the interviewer from The Best of Baking says with a smile.
Gavin looks down at the shirt Drew had bought him a few weeks ago. It's black and in white writing reads, “Parental Advisory: Lock up your daughters.”
He just shrugs in response, and I resist the urge to shoot him the evil eye and remind him to be good.
“This is just going to be an informal type of interview,” Lisa explains. “I just want to ask some questions and chit chat. Just pretend like I’m one of your girlfriends.”
She has a huge smile on her face like I totally understand what she's talking about. She obviously has never met my girlfriends. We don’t sit around in dresses, sipping daintily from glasses of champagne while we politely discuss politics. We chug beers, do shots, and call each other thunder cunts.
I slide the white box across the table towards her, figuring I might as well start right off the bat with the bribery.
Lisa’s eyes light up when she sees the white box with our signature pink ribbon around it.
“Oh my goddness, you brought me chocolate!” she exclaims.
“It’s something new I’m trying out. I crumble up crispy bacon and mix it with white chocolate. The clusters are drizzled with caramel and butterscotch. They’re called Bacolate Bunches,” I tell her.
She tears into the box and takes a bite out of one of the clusters. She moans and groans and sighs for so long it gets a little uncomfortable. I'm now privy to what Lisa sounds like when she has sex. Awkward. But at least she likes my spur of the moment candy invention.
“So, Gavin, how are you doing today?” Lisa asks after she finishes the chocolate and finally gets down to business.
“I wanna play, this is boring,” he complains while staring longingly at the other children who are running and screaming around the play area.
“Gavin, be nice,” I warn under my breath with clenched teeth and a smile on my face for Lisa.
“Oh, it’s fine!” she tells me cheerfully. “I’d like to play on those toys too,” she says to Gavin.
“You’re too old to go on the slide. Your butt would get stuck ‘cuz you’re old.”
With the evil eye in full force, I glare at Gavin. “If you don’t watch your mouth, you’re going home to take a nap,” I say quietly.
“Naps can suck it,” Gavin whispers as he smacks his elbows on the table and puts his chin in his hands angrily.
Obviously, he’s already forgotten the Happy Meal and pop he was promised. God, if you’re listening, just help me not kill him. At least until we’re home.
“So, Claire, how’s business been going at the shop?”
I stop glaring at Gavin and hope that by some super mom power he will still be able to feel my wrath floating around him and keep his mouth shut.
“Business has been going very well. I still have to pinch myself every morning when I walk into that place. I am absolutely amazed that people actually want to buy things I make,” I tell her with a laugh.
I can’t believe someone is interviewing me for a magazine. I’m nobody. How is this happening?
“Are you finding it hard to juggle owning a business and spending time with your family?” Lisa asks as she typed away on her laptop.
“That’s the beauty of owning a business. Basically, I can do whatever I want.”
Lisa laughs and continued typing.
This sort of IS like talking to one of my girlfriends. Liz never pays attention to anything I say and is always busy doing other shit when I’m pouring my heart out to her.
“Can you elaborate on that just a little bit?” she asks.
“Well, if I want Gavin to spend the day with me, he can. I don’t need to find a sitter or send him to daycare when he isn’t in preschool. And if I need to close up early to take him to a doctor’s appointment or to go to a function at his school, I can easily do it without having to get permission from someone else or have my pay docked for missing time,” I explain.
