George lands hard. Caleb is in the doorway. I look up, startled and he winks and comes out onto the porch.
Less mosquitoes out here? He tries again.
Eh, not so bad.
Bad is relative. I have fifty-three bites and counting. I am itching and dancing and flapping around the point like a bird. I have gone through a tube of afterbite and one of hydrocortisone too. I contemplated swallowing a thermocell portable carry along but then figured that would be yet another emergency and I still managed to deal with all of the ivy in the front yard today and also scrubbed the bathrooms as I drew all the shit chore cards today. To retaliate I made personal pizzas and potato salad for dinner and I took my peach popsicle outside to the gazebo to see if I could make it fifty-four. I'm sure they're there.
George is sorry he hit you.
I could take him. But in all fairness, Bridget, I need to apologize to you. I thought I was calling out a double standard and instead I was being invasive and crass. I am sorry. It's not my business-
I can hear a but.
But I would like to resume our relationship.
You aren't good for me, Diabhal.
His laugh rings out across the darkened woods. That's us in a nutshell, Darlin'. He does his best Jeffrey Dean Morgan here and I am rapt but noncommital.
Maybe later.
Maybe is better than no. Besides, and he gets right in close against my ear. You like the hard parts.