"Mom!" I cried.
"Daddy!" he wailed.
I laughed despite the enormous ball of nervousness in my gut. He triumphantly grinned. "Well, why are you still loafing about the last couple of days?" he said. "That always made you chuckle." "
"I have to piss and moan at least once in a month as an eighteen."
My father sat down next me on the couch, nestling into the cushions and folding his legs over his stomach.
I uncrossed her hands and sat up a little, assuming he was meant to be amusing. My sulking wasn't intentional; it was my mother's fault.
She entered my apartment two days ago when I was reading alright, and I was looking at the pages of the book as my thoughts strayed back to a boy I had no occasion thinking about.
As she stood at the base of my bed, she appeared anxious, even guilty.
