We arrive at the physio clinic right at ten, without killing each other. I get him signed in and fill out the forms. The wait is twenty minutes,which he complains about the whole time. Finally, a short, friendly woman around my age comes out for him.
“Mr. Webber?” She smiles. “I’m Asha.”
“I’ve been waiting for nearly half an hour.”
“I’m so sorry. We had a situation that pushed us off schedule. But it won’t cut into your session.”
“No one respects time anymore,” he huffs.
I issue her a silent apology behind his back. She smiles, letting me know she’s used to it.
“I understand your frustration,” I hear her say as she leads him away on his cane.
How can Mom say we’re anything alike? That’s ridiculous.
I pick up my phone and text Dice to check on how he’s managing.
Still alive?
You haven’t destroyed me yet.
I meant Queenie.
I had her eating out of my palm. Literally. She liked my scrambled eggs.
Are you still nuking them?
Yep.
I thought she had better taste.
You used to like my nuked eggs and boxed mac & cheese.
*Used to* being the key words. I’m going to teach you a few things.
Oh yeah?
Cooking. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Says the woman who got hers.
Next time don’t serve me a strong drink.
Is that what you’re going with?
Yep.
How’re things with Maurice?
He’s impossible as usual.
You okay?
I’m resigned to never having a good relationship with him. But for Mom, I’m trying not to make it worse.
You sure hanging out with me and changing up his logo without his permission accomplishes that?
Whatever. Shirts will be ready this Thursday. And don’t forget I want to do something funky for your parties.
