between them. “Anyway,” Tracie said, “Laura’s at my house baking enough empty carbohydrates to stock a kindergarten bake sale.”
Just then Molly rejoined him. “So, luv. Poached eggs on toast?” she asked Jon.
“Yeah. Gotta have ’em.”
“And for you?” Molly asked Tracie, arching her brows with what seemed to Jon a bit too much attitude.
Tracie looked searchingly at the menu. “I’ll have . . . the waffles, with a side of bacon.” Molly didn’t write it down. Instead, she just stood there. Tracie closed the menu decisively. Molly still didn’t move. Tracie looked pointedly over at Jonathan. Molly remained standing there.
“You shouldn’t eat pigs,” Jon told Tracie. “You know, they’re more intelligent than dogs.”
“Don’t start,” Tracie warned. “Next, you’ll begin imitating the singing mice in Babe. So, you had the whole Mother’s Day trial while I had the Mother’s Day article fiasco. But that wasn’t all. Get ready to end your winning streak, because I had the worst weekend of my p. 59 entire life.” She looked up at Molly, who was still standing there, looking as permanent as the red London phone booths. Tracie waited her out. “I’ll have my coffee now, if you don’t mind.”
Molly finally started to walk away, but Tracie reached out and took hold of Molly’s arm, as she always did. Jon restrained a laugh. “Wait. I think I’ll have the pancakes. The pancakes and a side order of ham.” She stared at Jon. “The hell with the pigs.” She turned back to Molly. “I mean it this time.”
Molly heaved a big sigh, obviously bored, and pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Excuse me?” Tracie said rudely. “I don’t remember asking you to join us. And I think I placed my order.”
“Admit it to yourself,” Molly said. “You want scrambled eggs and you want them dry.”
“I told you pancakes . . .” But Tracie wavered and then gave in to herself. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll have the eggs.”
“No chips, slices of tomato on the side.” Triumphantly, Molly showed Tracie the order was already written down, then sashayed off to the kitchen.
Tracie waited a minute to regain her dignity. Jon just looked at her. For years now, they’d been meeting every Sunday to discuss their romantic lives, such as they were. And Molly’s eavesdropping meant she probably knew the facts as well as they did. “So, my weekend has to make me the winner,” Tracie told him. “It was a social nightmare.”
p. 60 “Let me guess: On Friday, Swollen Glands never got to play and Phil was pissed off and got drunk. On Saturday, the Glands did get to play, but they didn’t invite Phil, so he was pissed off and got drunk. Then he flirted with some girl; you walked out of the club and hoped he’d follow. He didn’t, so you went home. But he came back very late to your place, where he passed out in the foyer.”
“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Tracie asked, sounding half-amused and half-annoyed. “You aren’t always right.” She paused, but Jon waited her out. “Well, he didn’t pass out in my foyer,” she protested at last. “But you got the rest right.”
Jon sighed and shook his head. “Trace, why don’t you give this guy the keys to the street?”
Just then, Molly returned and placed Jon’s plate carefully on the table in front of him. She slung Tracie’s across the table.
Tracie looked down at the scrambled eggs quivering on her plate. “I know it’s stupid . . . but I really love him.”
“It’s not love; it’s obsession,” Molly told her as she refilled Tracie’s coffee mug. “It’s not even an interesting obsession.”
Tracie tilted her head toward Molly but looked at Jon. “She doesn’t like me,” Tracie announced.
“That’s not true,” Jon said in what he hoped was a consoling voice.
“Yes it is, rather. I’ve been listening to your ’istory of bad boyfriends for dog’s years. p. 61 You ’ave one of these wankers
Just then Molly rejoined him. “So, luv. Poached eggs on toast?” she asked Jon.
“Yeah. Gotta have ’em.”
“And for you?” Molly asked Tracie, arching her brows with what seemed to Jon a bit too much attitude.
Tracie looked searchingly at the menu. “I’ll have . . . the waffles, with a side of bacon.” Molly didn’t write it down. Instead, she just stood there. Tracie closed the menu decisively. Molly still didn’t move. Tracie looked pointedly over at Jonathan. Molly remained standing there.
“You shouldn’t eat pigs,” Jon told Tracie. “You know, they’re more intelligent than dogs.”
“Don’t start,” Tracie warned. “Next, you’ll begin imitating the singing mice in Babe. So, you had the whole Mother’s Day trial while I had the Mother’s Day article fiasco. But that wasn’t all. Get ready to end your winning streak, because I had the worst weekend of my p. 59 entire life.” She looked up at Molly, who was still standing there, looking as permanent as the red London phone booths. Tracie waited her out. “I’ll have my coffee now, if you don’t mind.”
Molly finally started to walk away, but Tracie reached out and took hold of Molly’s arm, as she always did. Jon restrained a laugh. “Wait. I think I’ll have the pancakes. The pancakes and a side order of ham.” She stared at Jon. “The hell with the pigs.” She turned back to Molly. “I mean it this time.”
Molly heaved a big sigh, obviously bored, and pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Excuse me?” Tracie said rudely. “I don’t remember asking you to join us. And I think I placed my order.”
“Admit it to yourself,” Molly said. “You want scrambled eggs and you want them dry.”
“I told you pancakes . . .” But Tracie wavered and then gave in to herself. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll have the eggs.”
“No chips, slices of tomato on the side.” Triumphantly, Molly showed Tracie the order was already written down, then sashayed off to the kitchen.
Tracie waited a minute to regain her dignity. Jon just looked at her. For years now, they’d been meeting every Sunday to discuss their romantic lives, such as they were. And Molly’s eavesdropping meant she probably knew the facts as well as they did. “So, my weekend has to make me the winner,” Tracie told him. “It was a social nightmare.”
p. 60 “Let me guess: On Friday, Swollen Glands never got to play and Phil was pissed off and got drunk. On Saturday, the Glands did get to play, but they didn’t invite Phil, so he was pissed off and got drunk. Then he flirted with some girl; you walked out of the club and hoped he’d follow. He didn’t, so you went home. But he came back very late to your place, where he passed out in the foyer.”
“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Tracie asked, sounding half-amused and half-annoyed. “You aren’t always right.” She paused, but Jon waited her out. “Well, he didn’t pass out in my foyer,” she protested at last. “But you got the rest right.”
Jon sighed and shook his head. “Trace, why don’t you give this guy the keys to the street?”
Just then, Molly returned and placed Jon’s plate carefully on the table in front of him. She slung Tracie’s across the table.
Tracie looked down at the scrambled eggs quivering on her plate. “I know it’s stupid . . . but I really love him.”
“It’s not love; it’s obsession,” Molly told her as she refilled Tracie’s coffee mug. “It’s not even an interesting obsession.”
Tracie tilted her head toward Molly but looked at Jon. “She doesn’t like me,” Tracie announced.
“That’s not true,” Jon said in what he hoped was a consoling voice.
“Yes it is, rather. I’ve been listening to your ’istory of bad boyfriends for dog’s years. p. 61 You ’ave one of these wankers
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