Page 37 of Flirtasaurus
His beer almost spills, but he catches it at the last second.
“Who are those naked pregnant people in that photo?”
“That one there?”
“Yeah!” he says like it should be quite obvious.
“If you must know, jumpy, that’s my mom, my dad, and… well, me. In the belly. My mom’s belly, that is. My dad’s belly is exclusively beer-infused.”
“That’s an awfully intimate photo to have of one’s parents, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? Your father is fondling your mother’s breasts with his forearms!”
“I think fondling may be overstating it. He was covering her. If you could see my mom’s nipples, the photo would be weird.”
“Right. The nipples are what would make it weird.”
I think that is the first bit of sarcasm I’ve heard from this fella.
“Is Mr. Nice Guy Ralph being prudey and judgy?”
“I actually don’t love the Mr. Nice Guy label. And I’m not judging per se or being… prudey, I just—”
“My parents are super in love. Always have been. This photo hung pretty prominently in our family room growing up, so I guess I’m used to it. Now that I have my own apartment, my dad wanted me to hang it on my own wall, so whenever I see it, I always remember that I was created from love.”
“Oh. That’s… sweet.”
“You don’t think it’s sweet. Look at your face!”
“No, all kidding aside. It is. Truly. You’re lucky.”
We sip and stuff and seal for a few moments of comfortable silence.
“So, I’m guessing no semi-nude photos of parental figures on your walls growing up?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think my parents have even been photographed together since the late 90s.”
“Divorced?”
“Big time. Could we, uh… Could we talk about something else, though?”
“Oh. Sure. Of course.”
Wow, I think this is the first time I’ve seen this guy look even remotely uncomfortable in his own skin. His body gets super fidgety all of a sudden, then he rises to his feet and starts moving around the room. I realize I should be coming up with a new topic as he requested, but he takes care of it for me—or for himself, I suppose—when he spots my composition book on a side table and flips it open.
“Who is… Tracy Triassic?”
“Yo!” I freak. “Snoopy! Shut that!”
“Whoa, sorry!”
Leaping to my feet, I grab the book from his hands.
“You never open someone’s personal notebook!”
“You don’t?”
