The Women in My Life

eMom set up a kiln in the kitchen already, between the oven (which I don’t use) and the sink (which I do use). I am going to kill her. She’s making like, elephant figurines or something. I don’t even know. There’s trunks and tails all over the counter and I didn’t even get to have breakfast. I can not have been this annoying when I was a kid.

Turns out Steph was way ahead of me—she called up Wren last night and took her to dinner. Bitch.

Apparently, Wren is a Scorpio and enjoys pho and air hockey. Fantastic.

Stephanie, heedless of the dangers of unemployment, gloated all over the place. She spent half the morning implying she fucked Wren before I got her to admit that it didn’t get past a little kissing. They’re going out again on Thursday, to see some Japanese author read about trains. When Stephanie was a kid, her mom took her across Austria on a train, reading her Grimm’s fairy tales and scaring the shit out of her with all the blood and maidenheads and severed limb stuff. She dug it, though, secretly. And I guess Wren has a thing for this writer.

I should have been a writer.

I wasn’t going to ask. It’s bad enough Stephanie got to stick her tongue in this girl’s mouth, I don’t need to watch. I’m not a masochist. I don’t have that “maybe they’ll let me join in” fantasy. They totally won’t.

But by the end of the day, she’d stopped crowing about it and told me to come along, even though I could give a shit about trains. Fine. I, too, enjoy pho and air hockey.

I had fully three sorority-chick butterflies today. Their moms freaked, I guess. Fucking butterflies. Fucking moms.

After Stephanie packed up and left I got this phone call. I practically fell over the front counter reaching across her damn plants to pick it up. There was some predictable heavy breathing and then a guy said: “I need to talk to her.”

“Whatever, dude,” I said, and hung up over him sputtering that I didn’t understand. It rang again. I picked it up, told him to get over it, and slammed the receiver. It’s pretty awesome to slam a receiver these days. Clicking your cell closed just doesn’t have the same emotional punch.

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