I had washed them since. “Fuck him,” I said. “And watch your fuckin’ mouth.” I put the three slices of baloney on some rye bread and grabbed...an orange soda out of the fridge. I could see she wasn’t going to shut up about it, though. “He hasn’t seen you since you were ten,” she went on. “Nine,” I corrected her. “Whatever. He’s buying you a fucking car and you can’t even wear something better? Borrow something of mine, if you want.” “And look like a whore?” Mom gave me an ugly look and the next. As I took her glass out of her hand I sensed a hesitation, a nervousness in her that told of an internal battle, was it time to flee? I set her wine down on the table next to her glasses then leant closer to her, not letting my lips touch her for a fraction of a second then closing that final distance. I was gentle but definite because I meant this and she had to know it. This was no game. For a second she didn’t respond and I felt her disbelief, before, in a sudden rush, she threw her doubts. More

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