“You’re awake,” Aunt Kitty says when she casually swishes into the kitchen. She’s decked out in her teal, burgundy, and purple tracksuit from the 1990s, a white visor pushing back her curly red hair and her signature magenta lipstick staining her lips.
“Couldn’t really sleep,” I say.
“Really? I slept like a dog. I took about five melatonin. Might have overshot it a bit but conked out and didn’t wake up until my blasted alarm went off. And boy was that a shock to the system.” She lifts her short leg up and hooks her heel on top of the counter to start stretching. “Woke up thinking I was in full-blown cardiac arrest. I was sweating, my chest was constricted, and that’s when I noticed my tank top had slipped over my breasts, so they were dangling like two ripe pears ready to be plucked, and the straps of my tank were tugged over my heart.”
That’s…that’s quite the visual.
“Either way, it got me thinking, I need to get my tail into high gear and start my aerobics again if I plan on competing thisfall.” She stretches a little farther and then wails as she grabs her tailbone. “Oh, I felt that all the way in the coccyx.”
Shaking my head, I put the scrambled eggs I made on a plate, garnish them with some sriracha, and then sit down at the bistro table in the kitchen.
Our home is Cape Cod style. Quaint, somewhat small for two people living different lives. I hear a lot of strange things coming from Aunt Kitty’s room, and I’ve found going to sleep with headphones is the best way to ignore whatever is happening. But I moved in here when my dad passed, and well, given I’m a handywoman around town with a meager income, I find it’s easier to live with Aunt Kitty until I can afford something of my own. I’m sure that will take decades at this point since I live in a popular tourist destination.
When Aunt Kitty switches legs and pulses to the side, she asks, “So, hear anything from our British fellow?”
“British fellow?”
“Yes, our British fellow.”
What the hell is she…
Hold on a second.
Oh God.
The fog from the margaritas slowly lifts.
Did we…
No, that was, that wasn’t real, was it?
“From the look on your face, I can see that you’re questioning our recent online activity.” She lowers her legs and attempts jumping jacks. “Well, I’m here to tell you.” She stops after three and presses her hands to her knees, gulping for air. “It happened. We told that British fellow that we were DTF.”
“Oh God, we did, didn’t we?”
“Uh-huh.” She brings one arm over her head and pulls down on her elbow, stretching out her triceps. “And I’m sure he came back roaring with a response.”
“He probably didn’t. He probably thinks we’re insane.”
“No, he wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity such as ours. We laid it on thick about the candy store. Family memories and all that. And the fishing, that was a nice touch. I bet you he likes to fish as well. All Englishmen like the great outdoors. Bet he’s done some of that fox hunting while wearing houndstooth jackets with suede elbows. I bet he hops on his horse and screams ‘Tallyho.’”
“He does not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He’s a serious businessman; he’s not doing any of those things.”
“Well, a question we can ask when he picks us.”
I shake my head. “He didn’t pick us.”
“Have you checked?”
“No,” I say as I push my scrambled eggs to the side. “I forgot we even did it.”
“Then let’s check.” She picks up her tablet that’s been charging on the counter and opens it.
“Or maybe we don’t. We don’t want to bother him or anything. He probably hasn’t even seen it.”
