Today I sent the kids off to school with PJ in the jeep and then I did my chores fast and by twelve sharp I was beside the pool with Duncan, who has a nice set of board shorts in a green pattern that matches my green bikini. He's got the Doors on the stereo for full Lizard King effect and he's optioning a lunch date of his own by suggesting we go in briefly to make up a nibbly-plate.
What the fuck is a nibbly-plate, Poet?
Olives, cheese, crackers, fruit and such. For nibblies.
I laugh. I can make that but I don't call them nibblies.
What do you call them?
Whore-doovers.
He bursts out laughing. What is that?
Ben's french.
Oh yeah. I forget he's American sometimes. He's been here so long.
Been where?
Sorry, Bridge. Is he back soon?
Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe if you call him he'll talk to you.
He doesn't come to the phone when you call?
He's always conveniently busy even though I always ask if it's personal time and they confirm.
Ben's got a lot of personal shit that he deals with, Poem. I don't know why the bikini doesn't liquefy his mind and fix it all but he's trying.
I know he is.
Maybe if you just wore that all the time it would be easier for him.
Easier for who, again?
Mankind.
I stare him down over the tops of my sunglasses until he gives in and goes to make us lunch. Works every time. Implied disapproval. It means I don't have to lift a finger.
Snort.
