Thursday, August 2, 2012

Dear Babies,

“Really?” your dad said last night as I reached around him at the sink and emptied my whole white wine glass down the drain, a few droplets collecting on the black curlicues on his arm.

“There was a fly in it.”

“You couldn’t just scoop it out?”

“The fly? NO!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous!”

“It’s a fly…”

“Exactly! It’s a fly…

“Most people would just flick it out, it’s no big deal.”

“I have one glass of wine a week, Denby, it is a big deal. I don’t have to drink it with a marinated fly.”

There was a pause.

(A sizable pause.)

“If you think you only have one glass of wine a week you need to have a long conversation with yourself.”

There was another pause.

(A sizable pause.)

“I’m talking Monday through Friday,” I revised.

Your dad blinked at me with his hands on his hip.

“Okay Monday through Thursday 4:00 p.m.”

I paused again, then gave my final offer, “Maybe I have like, three.”

If a rose is a rose is a rose, a fly is not a fly is not a fly.

Sometimes, it’s just a fly.

Sometimes, it’s a fly, and excuse me, waiter, there is one  in my soup.




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