Page 25 of Bears Behaving Badly
“A golden goddamned jackal?” Dev’s delighted yelp carried all the way into the living room. “I thought you guys were extinct!”
“No,” Pat replied, “we just don’t use social media.”
“Oh, look, a millennial joke.”
“Oh, look, a millennial who instantly made it about himself.”
“I’mnota millennial. I’m too young!” Dev insisted. “If anyone’s a millennial, it’s you and Annette.”
“Well, what the hell are you, then?”
“I don’t know! I don’t think our generation has named ourselves yet.”
They hadn’t noticed her yet. There was still time to abort this disaster in the making. “Morning,” she mumbled, stumbling into the kitchen and yawning so hard she heard something crack.
“You know who started all this generation-naming bullshit?”
“Please, Pat, no,” she begged.
“The goddamned baby boomers,” he declared, but since Annette had mouthed it along with him, Dev couldn’t hold back a giggle. “All this shit started with them. ‘Hey, let’s change the world, war is bad, marijuana’s good, here, have a shopping channel.’ You know the thing that defined them?” Without pausing for an answer, Pat raced on. “They were born. That’s it. Their parents didn’t die in World War II. Instead, they came home and got laid and impregnated half the country.”
“No more,” Annette pleaded. “I’d rather talk about the madness unfolding before me. What are you two doing?” To be honest, it was all she could do to keep the stern expression on her face due to the high prevalence ofwhaaaaaat?
Dev, in his new jeans (on the way to her place, she, David, and Dev had swung by Super Target, where she’d stupidly forgotten to pick up a new alarm clock for herself, as well as some groceries) and one of Pat’s old T-shirts (“I like coffee and maybe three people”), was floured to his elbows. Beside him, stirring chocolate chips into batter and bitching about the Greatest Generation, Pat was in his second-favorite blue tank top (“Don’t follow your dreams; follow my Instagram”), black capris, and…was that…?
“But you despise lip gloss,” Annette said, astounded. “You said it makes you feel like you’re drooling strawberry saliva.”
“I’m giving it another chance. It’s called being open-minded and you should try it sometime, sunshine.”
“I like it,” Dev declared. “It brings out your stubble.”
“Thankyou.”
“You guys, it’s 7:00 a.m.! Far too early for…whatever this is.”
Pat held up his phone. “Why are you talking like everyone doesn’t walk around with a clock and therefore can’t possibly know what time it is?”
“Morning.” David shuffled past her, and it was nice to see someone else as bleary-eyed as she was. “Coffee? Please, please coffee?”
“Tea’s better for you.”
“Shut up, boy,” he replied without malice. “Ah. There.” They all watched in perplexed fascination as David poured himself half a gallon of coffee
(Is that even a go-cup? It’s the size of a vase!)
with one lump of sug—no, two—no, three, no—Jesus. Followed by a splash of cream, ifsplashmeant a quarter of a cup.
“Oh, lovely, now I’m living with two people who have disgusting breakfast habits.”
“Back off, Pat,” she warned, “or I’ll force-feed you my next omelet.”
“I’ll die first. That’s literal, by the way. Not hyperbole. My body will shut down, and you’ll have a corpse on your hands in the kitchen.Again.”
“You promised never to bring up the corpse in the kitchen.” But she was actually glad it had come up. It helped her focus on something besides sleepy, scruffy David, whose other self was almost as big as hers, and possibly as dangerous. And smelled divine, like moss and warm, clean fur. And seemed completely unaware of his appeal.
No, it was good to focus on something—anything—besides how easy it would have been to slip into the guest room and wake David with mouth and hands and tongue. Which could have led to mutual orgasm but was just as likely to result in a broken nose, depending on how easily startled he was.
All this within earshot of weres who could hear a pin drop. Actual pins actually dropping—some clichés were real.
