Ned is drowsy, sitting on the floor between Spencer’s legs. Spencer has a hand on Ned, a hand on my shoulder. I want to remind him…no pity. I want to say that, but of course I don’t. “I know it’s yours…but it’s not cancer?” he says finally. “No,” I say. Not breast cancer. He knows this. He’s just circling. He’s waiting for more. “Are you going to say?” he asks. I look at him briefly, shake my head. “It’s a wound. It’s a bullet,” he says, “or a knife.” People get mad at other people’s wounds when they love them…or think they do. I want to remind him again…no pity. Pity is the cheapest form of love. And I’d welcome his indifference over that. So we drive quiet, his hand on my shoulder…there’s nothing else but the way he touches me now. He holds on to me. What I know, he understands. I think he does. When we get home, wet and tired, he comes around to my side. I am stepping into my shorts. He watches. “You’re twenty-seven, right?” I pull my shirt over my shorts, leaving them undone.
What do You think about Me And Mom Fall For Spencer?
