5 mph, forcing her to pound that rubber track.
Dance, fat little hamster, dance!
— C’mon, Lena Sorenson, c’mon! I shout, as heads turn, my voice booming over Toby’s ambient drivel. I push the treadmill up to 6 mph, watching the blaze intensify on Sorenson’s face. — We are fired up and rarin to go!
Every time the chunky hoe catches her breath to do what she does best, even more than eat, namely talk, I push her further, or change the activity. She has to get the message: this is
not
a social club.
But Sorenson surprises me with her cojones. She’s taking everything I’m throwing at her. Even after the session, she’s still sticking around, breathlessly trying to engage with me when my mind is clearly elsewhere. — That . . . is . . . just . . . soooo . . . good . . . I haven’t felt this good . . . in ages . . .
It gets so oppressive that I’m even delighted to meet
Mom
for lunch.
Anything
, if it means escaping my own personal Siamese twin. Annabel, I know your pain. Sorenson practically invites herself along, and then has the audacity to look at me like an abused stepchild when I tell her I have things to discuss with
my mother
. My God, I’m even concerned the needy bitch is going to stalk me all the way to the Ocean Drive joint where we’ve stupidly agreed to meet! I step outside the gym and make my way toward the Atlantic.
If numbers count in my game, then my mom, Jackie Pride (58, 5’8", 130 lbs), through being in real estate, is probably even more subject to their capriciousness. The market has tanked; she sold twelve condos in Miami two years ago, three last year, and so far none this year. Two years ago she ran around in a big Lincoln; its predecessor was the one she bought to replace the Caddy I inherited. It was the era when real-estate guys imitated lawyers and nobody laughed. Now that she’s driving a Toyota and staring hard into the demise of another long-term relationship, zero is a troubling statistic.
She’s already seated, laptop fired up Sorenson-style (ha!), and rattling into her cell phone. As I approach she looks up, — Hey, pickle, and she gives me an apologetic nod, her shaved-and-penciled brows arching as she snaps her Apple Mac shut. She’s wearing a white top, with a checked skirt and pair of shoes, both black and white. She wears glasses on the bridge of her strong Saxon nose (not like my little button Paddy thing, inherited from Dad), and a pair of shades pushed back on her head to keep her still-brown collar-length hair in place. Mom ends her call and scrunches into her plastic chair, which slides a few inches along the sidewalk. — Oh my God . . . she groans. She looks good; the only really noticeable ravage of age is where the jowly flesh around her chin and neck has sagged to a crumpled bag. Mom keeps talking about getting “work done” but being “too busy even for Lasik.”
A young blond chick I recognize (I think one of Mona’s clients at Bodysculpt) swaggers by, wearing a yellow string bikini bottom and matching yellow T-shirt, with MS. ARROGANT emblazoned on it in big blue letters. SoBe remains a sun-drenched refuge for strutting grotesques and desperate narcissists. Mom’s phone goes again. — Lieb, she pleads. — I’ll take this, sweetie, then I’ll switch the goddamn thing off, I promise.
— Cool, I say, picking up the menu.
— Lieb, sweetkins. . . . Yes. Gotcha. . . . Gotcha. Just keep them entertained. Gulfstream Park or the like, you know the drill. . . . Check. Just keep them believing that it’s a rock-solid investment, which, to all intents and purposes it is . . . Yes, I love you . . . Her brows arch further north. — Gotta go now, sweetie, Lucy’s here. Ciao. She flicks the iPhone into silence. — Men. The toughest of them seem to need the most hand-holding. It’s so weird. I mean, he can take those squeaky assholes to a bar or a strip club. I don’t care. She shakes her head. — God, people are just losing their nerve! That
Dance, fat little hamster, dance!
— C’mon, Lena Sorenson, c’mon! I shout, as heads turn, my voice booming over Toby’s ambient drivel. I push the treadmill up to 6 mph, watching the blaze intensify on Sorenson’s face. — We are fired up and rarin to go!
Every time the chunky hoe catches her breath to do what she does best, even more than eat, namely talk, I push her further, or change the activity. She has to get the message: this is
not
a social club.
But Sorenson surprises me with her cojones. She’s taking everything I’m throwing at her. Even after the session, she’s still sticking around, breathlessly trying to engage with me when my mind is clearly elsewhere. — That . . . is . . . just . . . soooo . . . good . . . I haven’t felt this good . . . in ages . . .
It gets so oppressive that I’m even delighted to meet
Mom
for lunch.
Anything
, if it means escaping my own personal Siamese twin. Annabel, I know your pain. Sorenson practically invites herself along, and then has the audacity to look at me like an abused stepchild when I tell her I have things to discuss with
my mother
. My God, I’m even concerned the needy bitch is going to stalk me all the way to the Ocean Drive joint where we’ve stupidly agreed to meet! I step outside the gym and make my way toward the Atlantic.
If numbers count in my game, then my mom, Jackie Pride (58, 5’8", 130 lbs), through being in real estate, is probably even more subject to their capriciousness. The market has tanked; she sold twelve condos in Miami two years ago, three last year, and so far none this year. Two years ago she ran around in a big Lincoln; its predecessor was the one she bought to replace the Caddy I inherited. It was the era when real-estate guys imitated lawyers and nobody laughed. Now that she’s driving a Toyota and staring hard into the demise of another long-term relationship, zero is a troubling statistic.
She’s already seated, laptop fired up Sorenson-style (ha!), and rattling into her cell phone. As I approach she looks up, — Hey, pickle, and she gives me an apologetic nod, her shaved-and-penciled brows arching as she snaps her Apple Mac shut. She’s wearing a white top, with a checked skirt and pair of shoes, both black and white. She wears glasses on the bridge of her strong Saxon nose (not like my little button Paddy thing, inherited from Dad), and a pair of shades pushed back on her head to keep her still-brown collar-length hair in place. Mom ends her call and scrunches into her plastic chair, which slides a few inches along the sidewalk. — Oh my God . . . she groans. She looks good; the only really noticeable ravage of age is where the jowly flesh around her chin and neck has sagged to a crumpled bag. Mom keeps talking about getting “work done” but being “too busy even for Lasik.”
A young blond chick I recognize (I think one of Mona’s clients at Bodysculpt) swaggers by, wearing a yellow string bikini bottom and matching yellow T-shirt, with MS. ARROGANT emblazoned on it in big blue letters. SoBe remains a sun-drenched refuge for strutting grotesques and desperate narcissists. Mom’s phone goes again. — Lieb, she pleads. — I’ll take this, sweetie, then I’ll switch the goddamn thing off, I promise.
— Cool, I say, picking up the menu.
— Lieb, sweetkins. . . . Yes. Gotcha. . . . Gotcha. Just keep them entertained. Gulfstream Park or the like, you know the drill. . . . Check. Just keep them believing that it’s a rock-solid investment, which, to all intents and purposes it is . . . Yes, I love you . . . Her brows arch further north. — Gotta go now, sweetie, Lucy’s here. Ciao. She flicks the iPhone into silence. — Men. The toughest of them seem to need the most hand-holding. It’s so weird. I mean, he can take those squeaky assholes to a bar or a strip club. I don’t care. She shakes her head. — God, people are just losing their nerve! That
Similar Books
