The girl has spent the afternoon on the lumpy bed in the white bedroom. She lay there picking last week’s nail polish off chip by chip with her phone wedged between her shoulder and her cheek: Uh huh … uh huh … he did NOT … then what did she say … he’s got some nerve … For nearly two hours chewing gum the whole time staring off into space or at the neoclassic abstract art nouveau or whatever painting in the wonky frame with a tiny hole in the corner, murmuring platitudes or exclaiming outrage at the right intervals in the tragic teenage drama.
Mom’s still in the upstairs bathroom using a mini-trimmer with a built-in light to mow the pesky hairs that sprout rebelliously from above her lip and below her chin. She’s relentless with the tiny whirring blades, the little light illuminating each doomed intruder in turn and glinting iridescent when it catches the clock face behind her. She’s got a battalion of creams and serums lined up on the vanity at attention, ready to wage war on wrinkles, lines and creases, shadows, spots or any sign of age.
The sullen son slammed out the front door moments after he’d gulped down lunch. He scooped up his father’s car keys without so much as an if-you-don’t-mind and slung his leather jacket over one shoulder under the twin smoke detectors in the foyer. Not much of a family vacation when 25% is missing most of the day and night, but that’s young people these days all independence and doing their own thing and you wouldn’t understand and GAWD mom you’re embarrassing me!
Dad gives no signs of noticing, pecking away at his laptop on the well-worn sofa in the family room that’s been more solitary room this week. Once he had found a live plug, not like that boxy outlet on the wall that doesn’t work, he was wired in for the long haul. No vacation for the man who brings home the bacon remotely—he’s too busy chewing the fat with CEOs, greasing the palms of all the right executives, always getting to the meat of the matter.
It’s been a dull day at 305 Barton Lane, 2 bedroom 1 bath, parking for 2 cars, just a short 10 minute drive to the beach, fast WiFi, no parties, 3.89 star rating.
Last weekend’s guest was a balding man with a white stripe on the third finger of his left hand and a belly that almost covered his silver-plated belt buckle. He was soon joined by a tall ginger with a volatile temper and a penchant for clothing that showed just how many freckles she had.
Far more interesting to watch.
Aly Writes 