Ten.Seven Hundred & Ninety
I think I hear him yelling. I rip out the cords from the machine and take his headphones and controller. I don’t say a word.
I suppose I ought to get up and make a breakfast. Scones?
I choose to drink my coffee and make everyone else scramble to get their things together for the baseball game. I think a mother’s life is mostly holding in all the “I told you so”s.
And nope. But I take his card because if I do ever need an agent, I’ll gladly give my money to a black broker and agent. Plus he’s from Louisiana and so that makes me like him even more.
I tell him that next year I will get my own license and we’ll buy our house on our own.
“There are too many kids here,” she says. I laugh because, well, what else would there be at a baseball game. But what she means is, “there are too many noisy/young/cranky children.” Which is also funny because she is sometimes a noise/young/cranky child.
A Sunday that feels like a Saturday.
This smells like Syrah.