I Bare Everything in Steamy Pics and Fans Lose It

Mom was scooping mashed potato with her salmon, but she wasn't happy. We were at the Flyin' B Cafe in Wind Crest with the giant radio-controlled plane hanging by wires from the ceiling overhead. 

"Greg," Mom said. "I want you to be serious with me. I have a serious question to ask you."

"Do you think there are jeans inside that plane?" I said, peering up. "I mean, like a jeans cargo plane?"

"I want to ask you something. But I don't want you to get mad at me. No, I shouldn't. You'll probably get upset."

"And what does the B stand for in Flyin'? Bee? Bitch? Bee-yotch?? It really makes you wonder..."

We went back to eating. The silence went on like salmon scooping potato.

"So," I said, desperate. "Lauren Groff's new novel is out."

Mom looked up. 

"Who?"

"I know her, you know," I said with as much smugness as was warranted. "And the fact that I know her makes me rather interesting."

"What? Who?"

"She was my thesis advisor. Back when I was getting my MFA and my heart was a golden chalice half full of poison. Anyway, I'll never forget the advice she gave me: 'Please stop writing, Greg. You have a stupid face. And you smell like diarrhea. Yours, Lauren Groff.' She'd talk like she was writing a letter to you. Funny, that."

Mom watched a teenage girl go past. "That girl has a nice figure," she said.

"Uh. Are you checking out that girl's ass, Mom?"

"It's a good figure she has."

"Indeed. I'm not allowed to look at it, due to various local, state and federal laws."

"Look at this." Mom grimaced, her hand white-knuckling the table. "I'm gripping the table. What is the reason?"

"Furniture encouragement?"

"And just a little earlier, when you were holding open the elevator door for me, I had this image of your head being chopped off in the door!"

"I think you might have what lay people call the heebe-jeebies."

"I'm just anxious all the time."

"Well, they might have something for that...?"

"I suppose you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Mom said. "You'd like to see me like a drooling zombie all day!"

"No, Mom. That would take surgery. Lots of surgery."

"Of course. I'm sure you'd love to drop me off like a piece of trash. Just dump me off at the hospital and never have to deal with me again."

"Now you're talking! But think of all the benefits?"

"Shh! Keep your voice down! People are trying to die."

"Right, right. Sorry."

Someone keeled over at the next table, and attendants, some with nice asses, swooped in to take away the life offender. Mom and I finished our delectable entrees, and started our deletable desserts. Mom ordered two slices of cherry pie.

"It's NSA," she said proudly. "So I can have as much as I want!"

"That means no sugar added. There's still plenty of sugar."

Chewing, lips cherry-red, Mom narrowed her eyes at me. "Listen to me," she said, flakey crust sputtering from her tongue. "I want to ask you a serious question."

"Go ahead already. I'm sure my reader is dying to hear it."

"Is there something going on between you and Cinira?"

I stopped breathing.

"Hello? Did you hear me?"

"Mom, why in the world...?"

"You were laughing with her as you were walking away the other day. Are the two of you having an affair??"

I got out my phone.

"What are you doing? Hello?"

"I'm signing up for lobotomy surgery with my Lobotomy App." I grinned. "And I can't wait for that big breakfast!"