I walked into the house at two thirty last night more than a little drunk and nearly tripped over my dad's shoes. It seems that he had cut his fishing trip short and decided to join my mom who was already staying over.
A fierce but hushed debate then ensued in the kitchen outside of my sleeping parents' room.
Me, stuffing cold bockwurst into my face as a desperate preventative measure: "Maybe he isn't really here. Maybe my mom just set his shoes out for when he gets in tomorrow at noon."
The Boy, leaning up against the fridge and rolling his eyes: "How many people do you know drive green trucks with huge stickers of fish on the cabs?"
Me: "More than you might think, I'll have you know."
The Boy: "Well, I guess this means no pancakes tomorrow."
Me: "That's the least of our worries."
The Boy: "You got mustard on yourself."
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