She froze right there by the entrance. He came back with a towel from the powder room. She used it to dry her hair.
“Thank you.”
He walked her to the study. Dot was sitting at her usual spot, dressed in a blue suit with heels. Her hair was miraculously perfect again. Angela wondered: How did she do that? Did she wake up like that? Did she have a personal hairdresser at her beck and call and if so, where was this hairdresser? And most importantly, could she do her hair?
Dot had a cigarette in her ashtray and a box of chocolates and she seemed in an uncharacteristically good mood. She offered Angela a chocolate.
“Thank you. I’ll have a taste.” Angela tried to appear proper; although she was drooling like a teething baby. She had sworn off chocolates so this was a real treat. It was the most delicious chocolate she had ever tasted in her thirty-five years of life.
“They’re from Germany,” Dot told her.
Angela wanted more, more, more! But she didn’t think it proper to help herself, and was hoping Dot would offer again.
Michael grabbed a rolling desk chair from the other end of the study and rolled it all the way to their sitting area. He helped himself to a chocolate. He was dressed more casually than the last time she saw him; kakis and a grey cotton long sleeved shirt. He still looked gorgeous.
“These are good.” He helped himself to another one.
Yes they are. Offer me one.
Dot helped herself to another. She gave Angela a funny look, a little grin. Angela had the feeling she was mocking her; she knew she wanted another chocolate.
For the love of God, you inconsiderate woman, offer me another chocolate.
“Help yourself to more, Angela,” Michael offered.
Thank you. Thank you.
“Mother has an admirer,” he teased
“He’s going to have to work harder than a box of chocolates to get into this skirt.”
Angela gasped at the words and shared a smile with Michael.
“Well, he has good taste in chocolates. I should know; I’m an expert.” Angela offered.
“How so?” Dot asked
“Well... I eat a lot of it.”
Michael looked at her with that enticing smile of his; the one which usually made her quite uneasy. Suddenly self-conscious, she quickly changed the subject.
“So, how do you know this man?” she asked Dot, curious.
“He’s in the crocheting class I’m in. What kind of man does crocheting?”
“A man in touch with his feminine side, I suppose,” Angela told her.
“Well, I just don’t know if he’s the type of man for me.”
Angela couldn’t help being amused by the fact that Dot was being quite the picky lady for an eighty-year-old woman. Eighty-ish.
“I personally love men who are in touch with their feminine side; men who cook, who garden, who appreciate art.”
She looked at Michael who suddenly turned away. She had no clue that she had just described him perfectly.
“Wouldn’t you draw the line at crocheting?” Dot asked her.
“Not really.”
