Lolita's Perception

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗

If there's one thing I've learned over the past twelve and a half years of living on this earth, it's that there's nothing worse than Mother when she gets a plan.

Well...now, that exactly what seems to be the problem.

It started on the most typical Tuesday afternoon ever, when I overheard her talking to Mrs. Chatfield on the telephone. It had been pouring all morning, and the only thing I could think to do was read last Sunday's comics and  listen to Grandma Haze's old Dean Martin vinyls over and over again.

But just as one sappy song switched over to another, I heard Mother's voice echo loudly from her bedroom. It was impossible to ignore, almost like she wanted just about everyone in the whole entire house to hear her.

"Oh Martha, I can't even begin to tell you how wonderful he's been..."

Without even having to think about it, I knew exactly who she was talking about. "Hummy..." I remarked under my breath, letting myself fall back onto my cluttered bed as my eyes drifted shut and a contented sigh escaped my lips.

"Yes, I think he's going to pop the question any day now..." Mother continued, her voice brimming with excitement.

My eyes shot open the very second those awful words had even finished leaving her mouth, so the while I jumped out of bed quicker than I would if it was Christmas morning. Without even bothering to put a sweater on over my daisy halter top (the one Mother hates) I raced down the hallway, stopping as I came to the doorway of Mother's dingy old mothball-laced room. There were a few Van Gough paintings hanging on the wall, and half empty perfume bottles littering the top of her dresser, which she was leaning against with a hand on her hip.

"What sort of question??" I wondered aloud, leaning against the dusty doorframe.

Mother glanced up, outwardly annoyed. "Dolores, you'd better get out of here right this instant! I am having an adult conversation." she shouted, shooing me away with the magazine in her hand. "And put on something more appropriate before going down to the parlor—Professor Humbert is studying down there!"

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at her as I turned to leave, scurrying down the hall and then down the stairs with a softly stifled laugh.
Of course, there he was. Humbert. Sitting in a suede armchair in the sunlight, next to the phonograph that was quietly playing Beethoven's 'Symphony No. 3'.

"Hummy, what does "pop the question" mean?" I adamantly wondered, taking a seat beside his knee.

Humbert glanced up, raising an eyebrow as he set down the book he had been all wrapped up in. "Well, typically it means someone is going to ask another to marry them."

You've got to be kidding me...

"Oh, yeah'? Then how come you're gonna "pop the question" to Mother? Huh?!"

Immediately, Humbert looked shocked. A little upset, even—not at me, but at the idea itself. He couldn't stand Mother throwing herself at him like that.

"Of course not!" he exclaimed, tentatively taking my hand in his. "What on earth would ever lead you to think something so dreadful?"

"I didn't think of it...Mother did!"

"That's ridiculous." he sighed, pouring himself a drink from the bottle of amber tinged liquid that was almost always sitting on the coffee table. "There is absolutely nothing between that obnoxious woman and I; she of all people should be aware of that fact."