Stuck with a Punk ✔

No. 68.: Questioning

I tried to convince her to stay over tonight as well, while we were sitting on the sofa, watching The Last Man Standing we found on the programme, and eating toasts she packed with bacon, cheese and eggs. It was something to soothe our appetites and I don't really care what I eat as long as it tastes good.

No matter what I said, I couldn't make her stay, but her main excuse was that she usually has lunch with Caitlin and her parents on Sundays, and even though I was ready to argue that she could go and come back here, I dropped the subject. Maybe she was desperate to get away from me, and I don't blame her for it.

She at least agreed to me driving her home. At first, she wasn't up for it and said that it would be an opportunity to go for her usual running exercise, which caused darkness to fall on my eyes. I am not the kind of guy that would let a woman run from my place to hers. At some point, she just agreed to my offer, and it's not like she had a choice. There is nothing she could've said that would make me reconsider or agree to her terms.

I'm on my way to the hotel where dad and Deidre are staying and looking after Devon, and by the time I get there, it's already four o'clock. I didn't waste that much time driving around the city or anything like that; it's just that Annabelle and I took our dear time taking a shower, eating, rotting on that couch and getting our asses to the car. The process took nearly five hours, and I pray with my whole heart that maybe she has made another toast that was left uneaten because once I get home today, the first thing I'll do is devour something.

I imagine things will go smooth. I will go upstairs to their room, intercept the desired baby, turn around, sit in my car, and drive home. But the first thing that happens is that even before I get to the elevator, I get stuck. An old lady, with her walking stick, needs longer to get behind the elevator doors, which means she is extremely slow. As hard as I try to be understanding since the woman does look like she's incredibly old and probably has had her hip replaced a couple of times, I need to take a few deep breaths. Why don't families try to supply their older members with something that is more practical for literally everyone!

I finally get in the elevator when the old lady looks over at me and smiles: "Could you, please, press number 8 for me?"

I obviously oblige her, otherwise, she'd try to do it herself and it would take forever. And I'm also not the type of guy that would scream at the granny and break her walking stick on her back.

As I press the button for the 8th and 4th floor, she gives me another smile that is even wider than the last one. "Thank you, young man."

I tell her that it's no problem, and I feel kinda good about her calling me a young man. I guess that when you're over 80 even someone that is 60 seems young to you.

The elevator, as it starts moving, pings every time it passes a floor, but the granny doesn't waste any time. Before we even hit the first floor she smiles wider than before and says: "I have a granddaughter your age, you know?"

Great.

I nod at her with a somehow forced smile. She could just leave her niece alone. For all I know, her granddaughter could be a lesbian and afraid of telling it to her, or she just doesn't want to be with anyone. In any case, I get uncomfortable. Old ladies that play matchmakers, with the intentions as good as they may be, are a threat to the freedom of our society. And this one apparently found me to be worthy of her matchmaking service.

Even if I remain silent and detached from reality, that won't stop her from giving me some kind of way of contacting her granddaughter. Of course, she'd first get her wallet out and provide me with pictures of her.

To stop all that from happening, I say the first thing that comes to my mind that would do the job for good, and that is: "I'm taken."

She gives me a dirty look as if I've just cheated on her granddaughter and abandoned her and our never-existing twins. "I don't see no ring."