(If you're looking for the Part II of yesterday's post, or even the second half of what was posted yesterday, it has been removed. Some memories are safe, warranted and welcomed while others are the nostalgic equivalent of swimming in lava. I was cautioned not to proceed. My apologies. Perhaps another time.)
While I'm on the phone with Andrew, Lochlan picks up the sharpie from the counter. Before I can stop him he begins to write all over my arm. Before I can read what he wrote he admonishes me for not paying close enough attention to my conversation. As if he had nothing to do with distracting me.
Is it Ben-safe? What you are writing?
Jesus, yes. Is anything not Ben-safe? Or rather, is there anything safe from Ben? He'll probably think the words are food and try to eat them right off your flesh.
I laugh and Andrew thinks he is clever, on the other end of the line that travels across Canada and underneath the Atlantic to get to him. They are in Ireland and I've progressed past mild jealousy and straight toward seething, rabid envy. Dalton is collecting women, they say and they haven't seen him since yesterday or he would have a turn on the phone too.
I ask that they maybe keep a better eye on each other and Duncan laughs over the speakerphone on their end and says, But it's Ireland, Bridget! It's safe enough! And then Andrew howls and I realize they are mildly trashed and having a blast and I ask them just to be safe and look after one another and they promise me they are but I don't want to know how and by the time I hang up Lochlan has written all over my other arm as well and is capping the marker, quite satisfied with himself.
He holds up the sharpie. I think you might need a new one. This one's worn out.
I have dozens.
Oh good. I'll do the rest of you later on.
PJ snorts over his cereal at the island. I....forgot he was there. Apparently so did Lochlan.
Hush, you, I tell PJ and he laughs out loud and mimics Lochlan's words in Lochlan's accent but then he adds all of this crass stuff I won't even repeat. Why the boys didn't take him overseas I don't know. He might have been useful. Oh, right. Bodyguard duty here, though technically he is the nanny. That's right. I said it.
What did you write?
The Ringmaster's speech.
Oh fuck. You didn't. The whole thing? I am spinning in a circle, trying to see the backs of my elbows. He did. The whole thing.
Lochlan! Why couldn't you have just written the lyrics to a Pink Floyd song or something. Now I feel like the freak that I am!
Good. He said and broke into a crafty, peculiar smile. Might make you less appealing to the more conventional types around here.
