with
this
.
nine
Love, I said, strangely resembled certain gastric sensations … producing an uneasiness and shudders so delicate that one is not sure whether one is in love or feels like vomiting.
—Salvador Dalí
“Look, I take no responsibility for what’s about to happen in there,” I say as I park the car in our driveway.
“And what’s about to happen?” Mike asks.
“That’s just it. I don’t know. She’s liable to say anything.” I turn off the engine and climb out. Mike follows me as I trudge to the kitchen door. “She’s probably going to kick my ass,” I mutter.
“For what?”
“For anything she can think of. She’s psycho that way. But what the hell, my ass is a big target.”
I hear him stop, so I do, too, and turn around.
Mike is, like,
glaring
at me. “What?” he says.
“W-well,” I say.
“Well, what?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just, you know, my ass is enormous.”
He pushes my shoulder with one finger to turn me around. I don’t fight it. I
present
.
“It’s awesome,” he states.
While I don’t have a mirror handy—anywhere, actually—I’m pretty sure my face floods crimson. “You’re just saying that.”
“
Why
would I just be saying it?”
“Because you just … wanna …”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “What, make out with you? Yeah, ’cause
that
sure proves your theory.” He shakes his head and continues walking to my kitchen door, unescorted.
“Wait a sec!” I shout after him, and jog to catch up.
“No,” Mike says as his hand touches the doorknob. “Listen, Zero, you have a great body. It’s for real. Don’t freak about it.”
And the next thing I know, I’ve grabbed his wrists and pulled him close to me, kissing him, every nerve lit up like an F’ing Christmas tree. I devour his lips with my teeth, trying to swallow him whole.
Which is perhaps not the brightest move I’ve ever made, considering the top half of our kitchen door is glass-paned and the carport light illuminates us entirely.
So anyone who might, I dunno,
happen
to be hanging out in the kitchen—near the sink, let’s say—would see everything
quite
distinctly.
The door opens.
“Hello,” Mom says.
Well, shit.
We split apart, and fast.
“Hi,” Mike says, like this sort of thing happens every day. God, it doesn’t, does it?
“Mom! Hi. This is—um—Mike.”
I wait for the Fire of Eternal God to consume us both. Instead—brace yourself—Mom
smiles
. “Hello, Mike. It’s so nice to meet you. Come in.”
I give Mom a suspicious glance, but she doesn’t see it. She’s checking Mike out. She closes the door behind us and steps toward the living room, where I can hear the TV blaring.
“Your father’s out here finishing dinner,” Mom says as we follow her. “He’ll be so glad to meet you, Mike.”
What. The. Hell. Is going on? Who is this woman? What has she done with my mother?
“How was the movie?” Mom goes as we cross into the living room.
Mike wisely neither says anything nor shoots me a worried look. Brilliant man.
“We didn’t go,” I say. “We went up to Camelback Mountain and ate ice cream.”
“Oh,” Mom says, and lobs a smile at us. “That sounds like fun.” She gives her forehead a quick rub.
Mom passes behind the couch to her rocking chair. Dad’s sunk into the sofa, a TV tray in front of him. Three empty bottles are lined up at his feet; a fourth balances on the tray. The news is reporting something about stocks or bonds or something.
“Richard?” Mom goes, taking her seat. “This is Mike.”
Dad finishes chewing whatever Mom made him fordinner and looks over at us with a surprised expression on his face. “Oh!” he goes. “Your mom mentioned you might be bringing someone over, kiddo. Nice to meet ya, Mike. You want something to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“No? Beer, something?”
I mentally eviscerate my father.
“Um, no, no thanks. Not really, you know, old enough.”
“Hey, neither
this
.
nine
Love, I said, strangely resembled certain gastric sensations … producing an uneasiness and shudders so delicate that one is not sure whether one is in love or feels like vomiting.
—Salvador Dalí
“Look, I take no responsibility for what’s about to happen in there,” I say as I park the car in our driveway.
“And what’s about to happen?” Mike asks.
“That’s just it. I don’t know. She’s liable to say anything.” I turn off the engine and climb out. Mike follows me as I trudge to the kitchen door. “She’s probably going to kick my ass,” I mutter.
“For what?”
“For anything she can think of. She’s psycho that way. But what the hell, my ass is a big target.”
I hear him stop, so I do, too, and turn around.
Mike is, like,
glaring
at me. “What?” he says.
“W-well,” I say.
“Well, what?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just, you know, my ass is enormous.”
He pushes my shoulder with one finger to turn me around. I don’t fight it. I
present
.
“It’s awesome,” he states.
While I don’t have a mirror handy—anywhere, actually—I’m pretty sure my face floods crimson. “You’re just saying that.”
“
Why
would I just be saying it?”
“Because you just … wanna …”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “What, make out with you? Yeah, ’cause
that
sure proves your theory.” He shakes his head and continues walking to my kitchen door, unescorted.
“Wait a sec!” I shout after him, and jog to catch up.
“No,” Mike says as his hand touches the doorknob. “Listen, Zero, you have a great body. It’s for real. Don’t freak about it.”
And the next thing I know, I’ve grabbed his wrists and pulled him close to me, kissing him, every nerve lit up like an F’ing Christmas tree. I devour his lips with my teeth, trying to swallow him whole.
Which is perhaps not the brightest move I’ve ever made, considering the top half of our kitchen door is glass-paned and the carport light illuminates us entirely.
So anyone who might, I dunno,
happen
to be hanging out in the kitchen—near the sink, let’s say—would see everything
quite
distinctly.
The door opens.
“Hello,” Mom says.
Well, shit.
We split apart, and fast.
“Hi,” Mike says, like this sort of thing happens every day. God, it doesn’t, does it?
“Mom! Hi. This is—um—Mike.”
I wait for the Fire of Eternal God to consume us both. Instead—brace yourself—Mom
smiles
. “Hello, Mike. It’s so nice to meet you. Come in.”
I give Mom a suspicious glance, but she doesn’t see it. She’s checking Mike out. She closes the door behind us and steps toward the living room, where I can hear the TV blaring.
“Your father’s out here finishing dinner,” Mom says as we follow her. “He’ll be so glad to meet you, Mike.”
What. The. Hell. Is going on? Who is this woman? What has she done with my mother?
“How was the movie?” Mom goes as we cross into the living room.
Mike wisely neither says anything nor shoots me a worried look. Brilliant man.
“We didn’t go,” I say. “We went up to Camelback Mountain and ate ice cream.”
“Oh,” Mom says, and lobs a smile at us. “That sounds like fun.” She gives her forehead a quick rub.
Mom passes behind the couch to her rocking chair. Dad’s sunk into the sofa, a TV tray in front of him. Three empty bottles are lined up at his feet; a fourth balances on the tray. The news is reporting something about stocks or bonds or something.
“Richard?” Mom goes, taking her seat. “This is Mike.”
Dad finishes chewing whatever Mom made him fordinner and looks over at us with a surprised expression on his face. “Oh!” he goes. “Your mom mentioned you might be bringing someone over, kiddo. Nice to meet ya, Mike. You want something to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“No? Beer, something?”
I mentally eviscerate my father.
“Um, no, no thanks. Not really, you know, old enough.”
“Hey, neither
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