Mondays always seem to begin with three loads of laundry, a flat tire and an empty larder. A smile over the fact that every single episode of Sons of Anarchy now begins with a discussion on whether or not Tara looks good or bad and why and some Evanescence on the stereo, played at full volume at the Boathouse until Caleb gave up trying to talk over the music or turn it down and sat silently at his desk, tie already loosened, pen in hand but not writing, not reading, not doing anything.
Probably plotting something evil but I think I've gotten a leg up on him at last with this 'game', and no, that's not a literal leg up. That was last year.
How long do I have to stay?
Is everything ready?
Of course.
I don't know what I'd do without you.
Well, instead of sitting there you should be off trying to figure that out. Next year I'm passing the reins over to a new driver. I don't even like doing taxes.
It's most amusing to watch you rant and rave about the calculations though! Besides, I don't think the boys will trust anyone else. I know I don't.
So you're all happy to have a college dropout circus freak do your taxes because you don't trust anyone else?
Precisely.
Wow.
Well, it's not as if you get nothing out of it.
True. He nods toward my arms. Bracelets up and down. I wanted to dress like the fortune teller when I was young. She had bracelets up and down each arm and now I do too, because these are my payments for doing their returns. I pick a jeweler and off we go. One year I picked Cartier. That was amazing.
This year, probably McQueen. Because skulls. If they still make them. I saw them on Pinterest but I haven't checked at the boutique yet.
Caleb just looked over my shoulder and tells me they have them at Saks in New York, that we can go when I'm finished and pick something out. I sigh inwardly. Oh and also, not to write about him online.
Fine.
Asshole.
