beautiful.
i step out of the car to open the mailbox. i’m home from college for the weekend, and it seems as though everything’s normal again; mom nagging me on the ride home from the grocery store, making me get out of the car to get the mail from the mailbox when it’s cold out. the neighbors pull up just as we do, and the boy i used to babysit gets out, and it’s all awkward ex-babysitter to ex-kid-being-babysat, all how are you, how’s school, how’s hockey? awkwardness. i beat it back to the car as fast as i can, slamming the door shut and laughing breathlessly. i hate running into people like that.
mom says, “becca, are you really as beautiful as i think you are? i’m probably biased, seeing as i’m your mother.”
i laugh, because this is the kind of expected-unexpected remark my mother loves to make. “you are probably biased.”
mom says, “probably. i forget when you’re away and then you come back.”
i say, “i did win ‘most underappreciated hottie’ in the color guard superlatives.” it’s a joke, but not untrue.
mom says, “what does that even mean?”
i say, “i don’t sleep around.”
