Just Between Us #Wattys2019

AWAY FROM HOME: Bon Appetit, Bitch

She cleared her throat. "So," she started. "Last time I didn't really have the chance to introduce myself, did I?"

I smiled nervously. "I'm afraid not, Mrs. St. Lawrence."
Baby squeezed my hand under the table.

"Well, I don't know what Baby told you about me but knowing him well it probably wasn't very much at all." He coughed and choked on his drink. She ignored that and resumed with her own introduction, "I own my own business and Baby and his father work together at the museum. Baby's dad and I were married for about 21 years before we finally decided to get a divorce. We met in Paris when I was nineteen. I worked as a model at the time, you see." I tried not to look surprised. She looked at Baby. "Any other basics I'm leaving out?" She asked.

"No, mother." Baby answered. "I think we've heard enough about you."

She looked back at me, unaffected by Baby's sly comment. "And how about you, darling? What are your basics?"

I looked at Baby and then back at her. "Well, uh, I met Baby at the Art Museum downtown."

"Let me guess, contemporary art?" She tried.

"Pre-modernist." I told her. She raised her eyebrows and cleared her throat.

"So you don't like contemporary?" She asked.

"Oh, that's not what I said at all. Contemporary art is cool too, it's just that I really prefer realism."

She scoffed. "I'm glad you think Contemporary art is cool." She drank some of her wine.

I looked at Baby, confused as to what I should say in response to her mal-intentioned comment.

I looked back at her, "I'm sorry Mrs. St. Lawrence—"

"Please dear, call me Cara." Before I could say anything, she continued, "Do you have any siblings, Everest?"

"Oh, yes m'am. Uh— Cara. Yes, Cara. I have an older sister and a younger brother."

"Oh." She commented, and took a sip of her wine.

"Any problems with that, Cara?" Asked Baby.

"Not at all!" She answered. "I was just wondering: What do you have in common with Baby? I mean, you're a middle child, he's an older child. You like pre-modernist, he likes contemporary. You're American, he's British—"

"Oh, I'm not Ame—" I tried.

"So what do you talk about?" She laughed. "Or do you just have s—"

"We talk about all sorts of things, mum. Like for example: I love talking to Everest about how much she makes me happy. About how much she means to me. Tell me, mother, what do we have in common?" He asked. "You're an only child, I'm an older brother. You like contemporary and I like pre-modernist."

"Since when??" She asked, offendedly.

"Since I was born." He answered.

She scoffed. "Lies." She told him. "Why would you go to all those contemporary galleries with me if you hadn't liked it?"

"Because we make sacrifices for the happiness of those we love." He answered.