**
Look at him. Sleeping . . . He looks really good when he sleeps . . .
I shake my head and think angry thoughts. I'm supposed to be pissed at him, spoiled little . . urchin. Eh, it's early.
Instead of reaching down and touching the skin of his back like I want to, I reach out the toe on my sandals and nudge his ribs. He moans like he's in pain and I naturally roll my eyes and nudge him again, a little harder as I call his name.
"Harry? . . . HARRY?"
He shoots up like I scared the hell out of him . . . Hehe. But the smirk on my face prevents my laughter and he grumbles something.
"We have to meet your mother for lunch soon . . . or should I say brunch?" I ask, looking at the clock that states ten o'clock. She called earlier; insisting we meet her in an hour and who was I to deprive her of her darling spoiled son who was sleeping in too long anyway?
There's my smirk again.
**
I mumble something that at least signifies I'm up and she seems satisfied with it as she heads out of the room and I catch sight of blue shorts that won't help my current morning erection and I'm glad she left when she did. I rub my eyes and yawn sitting up before I limp to the bathroom and my left hand reminds me I won't be using that one anytime soon.
**
I flip through the channels as I sit on the coffee table, a glass of juice beside me. I hear Harry bumbling around in the bedroom and I become even pissier. No reason in particular but I could probably think something up before he comes out.
Harry stumbled out of the bedroom rubbing his eyes with his right hand as he stopped in front of me. He looked just as grumpy as the picture his mother showed me from a childhood birthday. He stood there for a moment then stuck out his hand, red and a little . . . swollen.
He must have picked up on my slight worry -- slight, I'm *still* mad -- and with that pissy look on his face he almost said his words with a vibe just this side of a pout.
"I burned my hand . . . "
I looked at him, then his hand and turned back to some sitcom rerun and shrugged.
"I don't care."
And I heard his arm drop.
And I did care.
Dammit.
"There's some burn cream in the bathroom."
"I put it on, it still hurts."
Men.
"It's gonna hurt, you *burned* your hand." With an aggravated sigh I stand up and go over to him, holding his wrist and looking over burn. And he eats it up. He absolutely thinks he's got me, sympathy now, and forgiveness later.
**
Got her. Nothing brings out forgiveness like sympathy.
"You should be okay," she tells me. "I'm going to get ready."
. . . What?
The door closes and it's obvious that didn't work.
**
The sun is a little too warm and it makes me squirm and squint in the outdoor café Harry's mother picked out.
"So Dana, I love that blouse, where did you find it?" she asks, trying to drum up conversation between two sullenly quiet brats.
"You know, I don't really remember," I tell her looking down at the white gauzy blouse with the hand-sewn embroidery.
"Well, it's just beautiful."
"Thank you."
"Harry? . . . Harry?"
"Huh? Yeah, Mom?"
"All right, that's enough!" Mrs. Droken announces, shocking me, but Harry just sighs and takes off his sunglasses.
**
She does tend to get to the point.
"Mom, I'm sorry."
"Why are you two so morose today? Granted my son had a tiff yesterday, but I thought it was all cleared up, what's the problem?"
"We just had a disagreement this morning," I tell her.
"And what happened to your hand?" she asked, noticing at this moment. Great.
"I had a fight with a steaming enchilada. It won."
"We're sorry, Mrs. Droken."
"An apology from Dana? Where's the press when you need them?" I mutter.
She gives me a spurned look but right now I don't care.
"Maybe they're-" Dana stops abruptly, not wanting to say anything in front of my mother and it's a good point, I shouldn't be saying anything either. She looks at my mother and smiles politely.
**
"Mrs. Droken, please excuse me, I'm just not as hungry as I thought." I give Harry a completely pissed off look and stand, his face drops, completely unbelieving.
"Dana, please stay," she asks sweetly and I wish I could reconsider but I really don't want to have some stupid word-war with Harry in front of her and have her thinking anything less of me.
"I really couldn't," I say. "But it was wonderful to see you again."
Leaning down, I give her a kiss on the cheek and leave.
**
"Very sharp, Harrison," my mother says, informing me of what an idiot I am as Dana leaves my sight.
I shake me head and put my glasses back on as I tell her, "You don't understand."
"But she's the nicest catch you've gotten yet." I try to cut her off but she holds up her hand. "Just friends or not. So, are you thinking of asking her out yet?"
She takes a sip of her water and I fix a look at her. "No."
"Well why not?" she almost reprimands. "She's polite, she's pretty, and she really likes you . . . and she's got plenty of years left in that smile," she grins happily.
"Maybe too many years, Mom. She's a little young."
"You're both young to me."
Ha.
"No, she's not just young, she's younger. She's eighteen." Tomorrow anyway.
"So what's the problem?" she asks, always the optimistic. "Your father was in his twenties when I was eighteen."
"Comparing Dana and my relationship to you and *him* is NOT going to make me want to pursue it." That's an understatement.
"Harrison." She looks at me with something akin to pity, like she feels badly that I can't see something the way it 'is'. "Stop for a minute and look at what's going on. Perhaps it's already evolving and you just aren't noticing. Take last night for example. You had a regular hissy fit and, obviously, something else is happening between you two that's upsetting, but she showed up here today with *you* right next to her. Isn't that saying something?"
And it is.
It says 'trouble'.
**
Screw it. That's my discussion as I walk into the apartment and slam the door. I'm going to work tonight. I'm going to work *and* I'm going to Smith. Why did I think this could EVER in a million years work out? Yes, I'm pissed, and later I'll reconsider going to Smith but for right now . . .
I punch in the number to the club and huff a little before sitting on the bare milk crates. What do I tell Grainy? The cut *is* healing well, I could just keep a scarf over it or something. It'll be my new thing.
Yeah.
"Diva Divine, this is Chastity speaking."
"This is Brigitte, I need to talk to Grainy," I bitch slightly.
"Brigitte? Oh. Yeah, I'll get him for you."
Who knocked that bitch over the head? Chastity hasn't been nice to me from the first split seco -
"Brigitte?"
"Grainy, hi. I was calling to tell you that I can work tonight . . . Grainy?"
"Brigitte, there was a call here for you."
"There? Who would know to call me there?"
"Well, you didn't leave your new number and . . ." He trails off and it clicks in my head, the only one that would try to get in contact with me there would be -
"Oh, God. Is Casey okay? Ginger. Is Ginger alright?" I ask, my chest pounding.
"Yeah. Yeah, Ginger is fine . . . she's the one that answered the call . . . Brigitte, it's your mother."
"What?" My throat has gone completely dry and all I can do is press my palm against my eye and try to concentrate on what he's saying.
"She's in the hospital, Brigitte."
Look at him. Sleeping . . . He looks really good when he sleeps . . .
I shake my head and think angry thoughts. I'm supposed to be pissed at him, spoiled little . . urchin. Eh, it's early.
Instead of reaching down and touching the skin of his back like I want to, I reach out the toe on my sandals and nudge his ribs. He moans like he's in pain and I naturally roll my eyes and nudge him again, a little harder as I call his name.
"Harry? . . . HARRY?"
He shoots up like I scared the hell out of him . . . Hehe. But the smirk on my face prevents my laughter and he grumbles something.
"We have to meet your mother for lunch soon . . . or should I say brunch?" I ask, looking at the clock that states ten o'clock. She called earlier; insisting we meet her in an hour and who was I to deprive her of her darling spoiled son who was sleeping in too long anyway?
There's my smirk again.
**
I mumble something that at least signifies I'm up and she seems satisfied with it as she heads out of the room and I catch sight of blue shorts that won't help my current morning erection and I'm glad she left when she did. I rub my eyes and yawn sitting up before I limp to the bathroom and my left hand reminds me I won't be using that one anytime soon.
**
I flip through the channels as I sit on the coffee table, a glass of juice beside me. I hear Harry bumbling around in the bedroom and I become even pissier. No reason in particular but I could probably think something up before he comes out.
Harry stumbled out of the bedroom rubbing his eyes with his right hand as he stopped in front of me. He looked just as grumpy as the picture his mother showed me from a childhood birthday. He stood there for a moment then stuck out his hand, red and a little . . . swollen.
He must have picked up on my slight worry -- slight, I'm *still* mad -- and with that pissy look on his face he almost said his words with a vibe just this side of a pout.
"I burned my hand . . . "
I looked at him, then his hand and turned back to some sitcom rerun and shrugged.
"I don't care."
And I heard his arm drop.
And I did care.
Dammit.
"There's some burn cream in the bathroom."
"I put it on, it still hurts."
Men.
"It's gonna hurt, you *burned* your hand." With an aggravated sigh I stand up and go over to him, holding his wrist and looking over burn. And he eats it up. He absolutely thinks he's got me, sympathy now, and forgiveness later.
**
Got her. Nothing brings out forgiveness like sympathy.
"You should be okay," she tells me. "I'm going to get ready."
. . . What?
The door closes and it's obvious that didn't work.
**
The sun is a little too warm and it makes me squirm and squint in the outdoor café Harry's mother picked out.
"So Dana, I love that blouse, where did you find it?" she asks, trying to drum up conversation between two sullenly quiet brats.
"You know, I don't really remember," I tell her looking down at the white gauzy blouse with the hand-sewn embroidery.
"Well, it's just beautiful."
"Thank you."
"Harry? . . . Harry?"
"Huh? Yeah, Mom?"
"All right, that's enough!" Mrs. Droken announces, shocking me, but Harry just sighs and takes off his sunglasses.
**
She does tend to get to the point.
"Mom, I'm sorry."
"Why are you two so morose today? Granted my son had a tiff yesterday, but I thought it was all cleared up, what's the problem?"
"We just had a disagreement this morning," I tell her.
"And what happened to your hand?" she asked, noticing at this moment. Great.
"I had a fight with a steaming enchilada. It won."
"We're sorry, Mrs. Droken."
"An apology from Dana? Where's the press when you need them?" I mutter.
She gives me a spurned look but right now I don't care.
"Maybe they're-" Dana stops abruptly, not wanting to say anything in front of my mother and it's a good point, I shouldn't be saying anything either. She looks at my mother and smiles politely.
**
"Mrs. Droken, please excuse me, I'm just not as hungry as I thought." I give Harry a completely pissed off look and stand, his face drops, completely unbelieving.
"Dana, please stay," she asks sweetly and I wish I could reconsider but I really don't want to have some stupid word-war with Harry in front of her and have her thinking anything less of me.
"I really couldn't," I say. "But it was wonderful to see you again."
Leaning down, I give her a kiss on the cheek and leave.
**
"Very sharp, Harrison," my mother says, informing me of what an idiot I am as Dana leaves my sight.
I shake me head and put my glasses back on as I tell her, "You don't understand."
"But she's the nicest catch you've gotten yet." I try to cut her off but she holds up her hand. "Just friends or not. So, are you thinking of asking her out yet?"
She takes a sip of her water and I fix a look at her. "No."
"Well why not?" she almost reprimands. "She's polite, she's pretty, and she really likes you . . . and she's got plenty of years left in that smile," she grins happily.
"Maybe too many years, Mom. She's a little young."
"You're both young to me."
Ha.
"No, she's not just young, she's younger. She's eighteen." Tomorrow anyway.
"So what's the problem?" she asks, always the optimistic. "Your father was in his twenties when I was eighteen."
"Comparing Dana and my relationship to you and *him* is NOT going to make me want to pursue it." That's an understatement.
"Harrison." She looks at me with something akin to pity, like she feels badly that I can't see something the way it 'is'. "Stop for a minute and look at what's going on. Perhaps it's already evolving and you just aren't noticing. Take last night for example. You had a regular hissy fit and, obviously, something else is happening between you two that's upsetting, but she showed up here today with *you* right next to her. Isn't that saying something?"
And it is.
It says 'trouble'.
**
Screw it. That's my discussion as I walk into the apartment and slam the door. I'm going to work tonight. I'm going to work *and* I'm going to Smith. Why did I think this could EVER in a million years work out? Yes, I'm pissed, and later I'll reconsider going to Smith but for right now . . .
I punch in the number to the club and huff a little before sitting on the bare milk crates. What do I tell Grainy? The cut *is* healing well, I could just keep a scarf over it or something. It'll be my new thing.
Yeah.
"Diva Divine, this is Chastity speaking."
"This is Brigitte, I need to talk to Grainy," I bitch slightly.
"Brigitte? Oh. Yeah, I'll get him for you."
Who knocked that bitch over the head? Chastity hasn't been nice to me from the first split seco -
"Brigitte?"
"Grainy, hi. I was calling to tell you that I can work tonight . . . Grainy?"
"Brigitte, there was a call here for you."
"There? Who would know to call me there?"
"Well, you didn't leave your new number and . . ." He trails off and it clicks in my head, the only one that would try to get in contact with me there would be -
"Oh, God. Is Casey okay? Ginger. Is Ginger alright?" I ask, my chest pounding.
"Yeah. Yeah, Ginger is fine . . . she's the one that answered the call . . . Brigitte, it's your mother."
"What?" My throat has gone completely dry and all I can do is press my palm against my eye and try to concentrate on what he's saying.
"She's in the hospital, Brigitte."
