How To Be Dutiful, Part xvii

You'll have noticed I've been sharing my work of late...I feel surprisingly good about this although I'm not sure how my readers feel. (My readers seem a little shy.) Writers, unlike other creators -- artists, musicians, dancers -- have little or no opportunity to share their work, and that topic's a whole other post. In the meantime, here's more: a random, short piece inspired by writings at underthestilts.com.

How To Be Dutiful, Part xvii

©Kathy George

Offer to pick up the boy up from the party. The party that might as well be in Whoop-Whoop. Stay sober. This is harder than it sounds; it’s Saturday night, for God’s sake. And don’t annoy him by texting every half hour. Go to bed. Awake with a sickening gasp an hour later to claw your way out of a molasses-filled hole. Check your texts. Nothing. Well, duh, of course nothing. Succumb to sleep again and come to when your phone shrieks. Finger-comb your hair. Don’t change out of your floral jammy pants – I promise you no-one will notice.

And avoid judging your reflection. Rinse your mouth out with whisky. Like a good boy scout add a dash of lippie. In other words, be prepared.

Coast down the road where the party’s at. Avoid the bodies, both prone and upright. Park somewhere less than obvious. Don’t stare and don’t give in to envy. Sit quietly and wait for further instructions, if any. When the boy and his five mates – Five! – well, what did you expect? weave their way toward you don’t flinch when they call you Mrs. 

Select a CD that’s raunchy and wild. Led Zeppelin or The Doors. Or, better still, The Black Keys. Turn up the volume. When you think it’s too loud turn the dial further...Further still...Now you’ve got it. Remember the effects of alcohol fumes and testosterone and wind down the window. Gently floor the gas pedal.   

Be prepared to stop when the boy rolling loose in the back wants to throw up. Be tolerant when the only girl forgets where she lives. Or how to get there. Above all be prepared to find you might like driving in the forest dark at some ungodly hour with the music way up loud and the headlights frightening the tinny letterboxes and the stars like stickers on black cardboard. Be prepared to forget you are married. Be prepared to catch your son looking at you.

(And be mindful that just for a little while the boy has let you into his life. And be grateful.)