My eyes opened. I felt the comfortable warmth to my left and looked over at the clock. 6:50.
Oh shit. Joanne’s up.
I rolled over and examined my accomplice. 5’4. Waist-length blonde hair pulled to the side. Round cheekbones, the occasional dry pimple. Wet, chapped lips.
Moving down. Two breasts: pale (the victim of a summer tan line), firm, soft. Notably asymmetrical, especially with regards to the nipple. A nondescript waist and belly. Freshly shaven patch of pubic hair directly above the vulva (as is the style these days.) Legs, feet. Small feet.
I placed my hand on her shoulder.
“Time to go.”
A moan (a mildly content one, I think, although one can never be sure) escaped the girl’s lips. I picked up her sullied underwear from the floor and handed it to her. A few minutes later, the girl was gone.
That night Joanne called me to the kitchen.
“What did we say about having girls overs?”
I sighed. I did not respond.
“Do what you want when you move out. But for now, this is completely unacceptable. David and I have made ourselves very clear on the matter.”
This time, I met her eyes.
“Why? Why does it matter? Why do you care?”
“Because Dad and I said so.”
Of course. Weak response, reminiscent of the lazy answers during my childhood.
“Give me a reason — a good one — and I’ll be satisfied.”
“I told you. We said no sleepovers in this house.”
I looked down at the woman, my mother. Her wrinkled face told her whole story: artificial stress, self-induced worries. She looked back at me with stoic eyes.
I retreated to my room, burdened with the consequences of another stalemate in our long relationship.
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