at a loss for words, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.
The hostess led us to a table, and Brittany dropped onto a chair. “I had a terrible time getting away,” she confessed. “This is our busiest time of year.”
“Where do you work?” I asked politely.
“Chez Rory’s.”
“Brittany’s a hair stylist,” Dad added.
And right now she was looking speculatively at my hair.
Don’t even think about it
. I nodded.
“Everyone’s trying to get ready for holiday parties,” Brittany explained. “And next week will be even crazier.”
Words. I dealt in words. Why was I having trouble accessing any?
Actually, I’m working on my master’s in psychology,” Brittany explained. “But before I went back to school I went to beauty school. I figured it would be a good way to pay the bills.”
I nodded politely. “There’s probably no better place to study the human mind than a beauty salon.”
I could almost see her psychoanalyzing dad.
It’s natural to feel unsettled at your age, Mike. Don't worry. I can help you through your midlife crisis
.
Our waitress appeared. “Can I start you folks out with a drink?”
If ever I was going to become a drinking woman, it would be now. “No, thanks,” I said quickly before I could change my mind.
Just pound me over the head with a hammer until I see stars
. Anything would be better than having to sit at this table for an hour and look at Brittany. And Dad. Together.
“I don’t drink,” Brittany said primly.
I could understand that. A woman had to keep her wits about her when she was seducing a middle-aged man.
“I’ll have a beer,” said Dad.
The waitress left. Words were finally forming in my mind.
“So, how did you and Dad meet?” Dumb question. I had already figured out the answer.
Sure enough, Brittany smiled at Dad like he was Santa and said, “Mikey came in for a haircut.”
Mikey? I could feel my facial muscles balking at donning an isn’t-that-sweet expression. I tried to force my mouth up at the corners. It felt like some little elf had hung a fifty-pound weight on each corner of my lips.
Fortunately for my lips. Brittany wasn’t looking at me for approval. She was gazing at Dad. She stretched a hand out to him, and he took it and looked at her like a puppy who had just been promised a lifetime supply of slippers to chew.
A waitress hurried past with a plate holding a steak and a sizzling pile of fried onions. I told myself it was the smell of grease and onion that was making me sick, not the sight of my father looking googly-eyed at a woman my age. After all, this sort of thing happens. Men date younger women, women date younger men. Anything goes these days. Whatever rings your bells.
But what about everybody else’s bells? My Dad was holding hands with a woman my age. She could be my step-mom. I had a sudden vision of myself at Hallmark, trying to pick out a Mother’s Day card for my new mommy. Then I had a vision of Mom coming in the store and catching me at it.
I stood up and started backing away from the table. “Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to . . . ”
Throw up
.
“Look out,” cried Brittany, just as I turned to run for the ladies’ room and a paper-towel cold compress.
Too late. I collided with a waiter bearing a tray full of steak-laden plates and a condiment server of sour cream, green onions, and bacon bits.
The plates jumped off the tray, the tray did a somersault and the condiment server took a bow, dumping sour cream on my black turtleneck.
The waiter looked mournfully at the scattered plates and food, then at me. “Are you all right?”
I scooped a blob of sour cream from my chest. It was dotted with brown bacon bits. “I’m fine.” I held up my palm full of sour cream and said to my dad and Brittany, “I’ll be right back.”
I stepped past the waiter, who was now kneeling over the mess, and beat feet to the bathroom. Thankfully, I had the place all to myself.
I dumped my
The hostess led us to a table, and Brittany dropped onto a chair. “I had a terrible time getting away,” she confessed. “This is our busiest time of year.”
“Where do you work?” I asked politely.
“Chez Rory’s.”
“Brittany’s a hair stylist,” Dad added.
And right now she was looking speculatively at my hair.
Don’t even think about it
. I nodded.
“Everyone’s trying to get ready for holiday parties,” Brittany explained. “And next week will be even crazier.”
Words. I dealt in words. Why was I having trouble accessing any?
Actually, I’m working on my master’s in psychology,” Brittany explained. “But before I went back to school I went to beauty school. I figured it would be a good way to pay the bills.”
I nodded politely. “There’s probably no better place to study the human mind than a beauty salon.”
I could almost see her psychoanalyzing dad.
It’s natural to feel unsettled at your age, Mike. Don't worry. I can help you through your midlife crisis
.
Our waitress appeared. “Can I start you folks out with a drink?”
If ever I was going to become a drinking woman, it would be now. “No, thanks,” I said quickly before I could change my mind.
Just pound me over the head with a hammer until I see stars
. Anything would be better than having to sit at this table for an hour and look at Brittany. And Dad. Together.
“I don’t drink,” Brittany said primly.
I could understand that. A woman had to keep her wits about her when she was seducing a middle-aged man.
“I’ll have a beer,” said Dad.
The waitress left. Words were finally forming in my mind.
“So, how did you and Dad meet?” Dumb question. I had already figured out the answer.
Sure enough, Brittany smiled at Dad like he was Santa and said, “Mikey came in for a haircut.”
Mikey? I could feel my facial muscles balking at donning an isn’t-that-sweet expression. I tried to force my mouth up at the corners. It felt like some little elf had hung a fifty-pound weight on each corner of my lips.
Fortunately for my lips. Brittany wasn’t looking at me for approval. She was gazing at Dad. She stretched a hand out to him, and he took it and looked at her like a puppy who had just been promised a lifetime supply of slippers to chew.
A waitress hurried past with a plate holding a steak and a sizzling pile of fried onions. I told myself it was the smell of grease and onion that was making me sick, not the sight of my father looking googly-eyed at a woman my age. After all, this sort of thing happens. Men date younger women, women date younger men. Anything goes these days. Whatever rings your bells.
But what about everybody else’s bells? My Dad was holding hands with a woman my age. She could be my step-mom. I had a sudden vision of myself at Hallmark, trying to pick out a Mother’s Day card for my new mommy. Then I had a vision of Mom coming in the store and catching me at it.
I stood up and started backing away from the table. “Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to . . . ”
Throw up
.
“Look out,” cried Brittany, just as I turned to run for the ladies’ room and a paper-towel cold compress.
Too late. I collided with a waiter bearing a tray full of steak-laden plates and a condiment server of sour cream, green onions, and bacon bits.
The plates jumped off the tray, the tray did a somersault and the condiment server took a bow, dumping sour cream on my black turtleneck.
The waiter looked mournfully at the scattered plates and food, then at me. “Are you all right?”
I scooped a blob of sour cream from my chest. It was dotted with brown bacon bits. “I’m fine.” I held up my palm full of sour cream and said to my dad and Brittany, “I’ll be right back.”
I stepped past the waiter, who was now kneeling over the mess, and beat feet to the bathroom. Thankfully, I had the place all to myself.
I dumped my
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