ḾṎᕍ⁅ᖇṈ ℄Ṏv⁅ | The Lost Boys

ᏨᏲᾀᑬt⁅ᖇ ṈḭṈ⁅

I tossed the phone onto Michael's chest. He jolted awake with a groan.

"... What the hell ...?"

"Mom's on the phone. She wants to talk to you."

Michael opened his eyes a crack and winced. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock. You slept all day." Again, I refrain from saying.

Michael motions for the sunglasses on the table. "Hand me those, will you?"

I scoff and throw them at him, too. "You need your sunglasses to talk on the phone? What are you, burned?"

Michael is quick to flip me off, murmuring a quiet bite me, before he picks up the phone. "Hi, mom..."

I can faintly hear her voice. "Michael, are you still in bed?"

"No, I'm up."

"Michael, will you do me a favor this evening? Will you stay home with Sam tonight? I'm meeting Max for dinner."

"I watch him all day, Mom," he says, unsympathetically. "The only time I have for myself is the evening. Can't you have Rowan watch him? She stays at home all day anyway."

"I want you to do this. You come home late, you sleep all day—Sammy's always alone."

"No, he's not, he has—"

"Michael, please! You do exactly what you want ... tonight; I want to do what I want for a change. Do you know how long it's been since someone has asked me out to dinner?"

There's a pause.

"Please?"

Michael presses his lips in a thin line. "Okay."

He hangs up and groans, rubbing his eyes. I tsk, pushing off the desk. "I guess it sucks to be you."

Michael grabs the nearest object—which happens to be a pillow—and chucks it at me as I head out the door.

Grandpa strolled into the kitchen wearing a khaki-colored jacket and a loud bow tie.

"Look at you, Gramps!" I coo. I bump him with my hip lightly. "Lookin' all spiffy! What's the occasion."

"Can't an old fart like me dress up for fun?" He adjusted his bow tie with one hand, smiling. "Anything in here that might pass for aftershave?"

I pop a grape in my mouth and grin. "I have some roll-on lavender oil."

"Nah—too flowery. Anything else?"

Sammy hops up from his chair and plucks a bottle off the windowsill. "How about this Windex, Grandpa?"

His eyes widened, "Ah!"

He accepts the bottle and squirts some into his hands, patting it onto his cheeks. Sam exchanges a look with me, and we make a face.

"Thanks!"

Michael enters the kitchen, still wearing his stupid sunglasses. He stalks past Grandpa, appraising him.  "Big date, Grandpa?"

He waggled his eyebrows, smiling slyly. "Just dropping off some of my handiwork to the 'Widow' Johnson." He holds up a stuffed dog, beady eyes staring me down.