Batman was in the kitchen this morning and Caleb steadfastly refused to entertain any further disappointment, calling his rule a reflex action borne out of concern only and purely hyperbolic, not literal. He then all but shoved me right out the front door as he said I might be late for work and should check the time, because Jesus. It is late, but not too late to see that his missteps are now going to be scrutinized, dissected and overturned the moment he reaches too far or does too much.
She has a head injury, he'll hiss at anyone who gives him the time of day, though I've now been seen by the doctor who said he didn't think I did but just to be sure we need to watch for the usual suspects and also I should probably take it easy for a few weeks.
Right. So I promptly changed into my work dress and went to work. I work most holiday Mondays because it's time and a half.
And I was tired. Tired enough that I rang up Batman a couple hours early and asked if he could come pick me up. He agreed, but only on the promise of taking me out for dinner tonight, if Lochlan agreed.
At one sharp I was outside. At 1:02 sharp Lochlan pulled up.
He glared at me. Lochlan doesn't agree, he said and laughed. Don't just go from one to the other, Bridge.
It was dinner. I insist weakly. Too tired to argue.
It's never just dinner. It's pieces of your soul. I try to be patient but you really need to have some real rest and not the pretend kind you think we don't notice isn't real.
Huh. It always used to work.
(Did you sleep, Bridgie? He would ask when I was all but wrecked, jittery and loopy from being awake for hours, watching his eyeballs move under their lids, sure that he was reading Shakespeare in his dreams, or maybe Edgar Allan Poe.
Yes, I lied. Every single time.)
It never worked, Peanut. I just let you think it did.