[62.1] Rude awakening
[Rude awakening]
The lock turning and the front door opening did not wake Devon Davis up. The dropped purse didn’t stir the young newspaper editor. The door to his bedroom being bumped into his shelf that he swore he was going to move one day didn’t register in his ears. Now, the sheet being pulled out from under him rolling him off the bed - that woke him up.
“It’s been two weeks,” she griped, overlapping his yelp.
Devon laid on the ground, surprised and sore. If he crawled forward and peeked around the bed he knew just who he would see standing there. But, that wouldn’t be possible because she was in Corona with her husband. She had left him alone with his high horse.
“Two, Devon!”
For two weeks, apparently. As he blinked his eyes open he wondered if there could actually be a high horse. If, said metaphorical horse could at least materialize and garner this woman’s attention. Maybe she would be distracted. Maybe she would yell at it.
It was the fucking horse’s fault.
Devon groaned and pulled himself up to a sitting position. His vision was blurry but he could still make out the form of his estranged mother. Could their relationship be called estranged if it had only been a few months?
Probably.
“How did you get in?” he asked, not bothering to pull himself the rest of the way.
“I bought you your hide-a-key rock,” she said.
“Oh, right,” he replied, instead of questioning the idea of a hide-a-key rock for an apartment in the first place. That battle should have been picked in a timely manner. This? Was not the time.
“Why haven’t you called me?”
“I believe it was my mother who told me to enjoy my high horse,” he said, dryly.
“Did you?’ How a Jewish woman could cram so much guilt into two words was astounding to Devon.
“No,” was all he could say. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re damn right you are,” she huffed. “Now get dressed. We’re getting coffee.” With that, she turned around and hurried out in a flourish.
Stella Daniels smiled at the Starbucks barista as she was handed her finished coffee before turning to her son.
“Where’s mine?” he asked. She ignored that and walked away, taking a seat by the window. “Okay,” he added, pulling out his wallet and running a hand through his hair. “Uh -“ But he couldn’t in good faith buy a coffee. Fuck, his mother had managed to guilt her son out of his lifeblood. This was getting out of hand. “Nothing, thanks. Sorry,” he said to the people behind him.
“I was rude.” Stella looked up mid-sip as if he had come to some grand conclusion but stayed silent. He went to sit before realizing her purse was hanging out on the chair. Biting his lower lip, he turned to his mother. “I was involved in my own life. I never even went up to meet him. I wasn’t supportive and I ignored virtually all of your calls and nobody deserves to be treated like that.”
His mother picked up the small plastic stirring instrument and tapped the table with it. She was trying to get on his nerves. Two could play it that game. A tap of the table was matched with a tap of the foot. Of course, this woman gave birth to him. He was no match.
“It’s my fault, all right? You’re a grown woman.”
“I am,” she finally said, looking up before actually stirring her coffee. Was it a sin to imagine spilling hot coffee on your mother? Just a teensy bit?
“I had no right to do what I did and I shouldn’t have gone radio silent.” She crossed her arms. “I shouldn’t have … turned my radio off?” She unfolded her arms and glanced down at her purse before grabbing it and setting it down beside her.
“Won’t you please sit down?” She looked up at him expectantly. He apologized again. He genuinely felt bad and had stopped resenting her for the rude awakening that morning - almost.
“Weekly calls,” he offered, taking a seat. She smirked, taking another sip. “Every few days,” he added. She shrugged, nonchalantly.
Oh. She was good.
The lock turning and the front door opening did not wake Devon Davis up. The dropped purse didn’t stir the young newspaper editor. The door to his bedroom being bumped into his shelf that he swore he was going to move one day didn’t register in his ears. Now, the sheet being pulled out from under him rolling him off the bed - that woke him up.
“It’s been two weeks,” she griped, overlapping his yelp.
Devon laid on the ground, surprised and sore. If he crawled forward and peeked around the bed he knew just who he would see standing there. But, that wouldn’t be possible because she was in Corona with her husband. She had left him alone with his high horse.
“Two, Devon!”
For two weeks, apparently. As he blinked his eyes open he wondered if there could actually be a high horse. If, said metaphorical horse could at least materialize and garner this woman’s attention. Maybe she would be distracted. Maybe she would yell at it.
It was the fucking horse’s fault.
Devon groaned and pulled himself up to a sitting position. His vision was blurry but he could still make out the form of his estranged mother. Could their relationship be called estranged if it had only been a few months?
Probably.
“How did you get in?” he asked, not bothering to pull himself the rest of the way.
“I bought you your hide-a-key rock,” she said.
“Oh, right,” he replied, instead of questioning the idea of a hide-a-key rock for an apartment in the first place. That battle should have been picked in a timely manner. This? Was not the time.
“Why haven’t you called me?”
“I believe it was my mother who told me to enjoy my high horse,” he said, dryly.
“Did you?’ How a Jewish woman could cram so much guilt into two words was astounding to Devon.
“No,” was all he could say. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re damn right you are,” she huffed. “Now get dressed. We’re getting coffee.” With that, she turned around and hurried out in a flourish.
Stella Daniels smiled at the Starbucks barista as she was handed her finished coffee before turning to her son.
“Where’s mine?” he asked. She ignored that and walked away, taking a seat by the window. “Okay,” he added, pulling out his wallet and running a hand through his hair. “Uh -“ But he couldn’t in good faith buy a coffee. Fuck, his mother had managed to guilt her son out of his lifeblood. This was getting out of hand. “Nothing, thanks. Sorry,” he said to the people behind him.
“I was rude.” Stella looked up mid-sip as if he had come to some grand conclusion but stayed silent. He went to sit before realizing her purse was hanging out on the chair. Biting his lower lip, he turned to his mother. “I was involved in my own life. I never even went up to meet him. I wasn’t supportive and I ignored virtually all of your calls and nobody deserves to be treated like that.”
His mother picked up the small plastic stirring instrument and tapped the table with it. She was trying to get on his nerves. Two could play it that game. A tap of the table was matched with a tap of the foot. Of course, this woman gave birth to him. He was no match.
“It’s my fault, all right? You’re a grown woman.”
“I am,” she finally said, looking up before actually stirring her coffee. Was it a sin to imagine spilling hot coffee on your mother? Just a teensy bit?
“I had no right to do what I did and I shouldn’t have gone radio silent.” She crossed her arms. “I shouldn’t have … turned my radio off?” She unfolded her arms and glanced down at her purse before grabbing it and setting it down beside her.
“Won’t you please sit down?” She looked up at him expectantly. He apologized again. He genuinely felt bad and had stopped resenting her for the rude awakening that morning - almost.
“Weekly calls,” he offered, taking a seat. She smirked, taking another sip. “Every few days,” he added. She shrugged, nonchalantly.
Oh. She was good.