And Ma will be here when I’m back, says Mike. You’re great company. She’ll live.
So I don’t flip the coffee table. Or one of our chairs. I don’t key his car or ram it straight through the living room. After the black eye, we stopped putting our hands on each other—we’d both figured, silently, it was the least we could do.I ask him when he’s leaving, and I know that’s my mistake. I’m already reaching to toss my charger before he says it, tomorrow.Mike figures we’ll make a bed for his mother on the pull-out.His mother doesn’t say shit, but by now she’s stopped crying.
Ma’s low-maintenance, he says. You won’t have to do anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. After a few days, you won’t even know she’s around.You’re joking, says Mike, throwing off his shirt.I’m not gonna call that racist, says Mike. But it’s fucked up. For a second there, I thought you actually gave a shit.
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