Kill All the Lawyers by Paul Levine Page B

move in with Steve? Why is the thought of All-Steve, All-the-Time, so terrifying?
    Victoria hadn't expressed her fears to him. How could she? Moving in together had been her idea. Of course, if Steve were more attuned to the subtleties of her moods, he would have picked up the vibes. Instead, she had asked: "Are you absolutely sure you're ready for this?"
    He quickly said yes, not realizing she had been expressing her own doubts. Typical tone-deaf male.
    Now she was in full-blown crisis mode. Could she really work with him all day, then come home to the same house? Was 24/7 simply too much?
    Something else, too. After that bombshell today, Steve nuking the ethical rules by turning on his own client, could she even work with him?
    Then she wondered if she was overreacting. Or even worse . . .
    Am I subconsciously using what Steve did years ago as a reason not to advance our relationship?
    She wanted to ask her mother all these questions. After all, The Queen's experiences with men crossed several continents over several decades and were exponentially greater than her own. But her mother, as usual, was engrossed in her own affairs.
    "You really must meet Carl," Irene said, peering over her pubic region. "He's a dreamboat and a dead ringer for George Clooney. They could be twins."
    "Which would make him how much younger than you, Mother?"
    "Actually, I haven't told him my age, but I implied I was too young to remember Neil Armstrong landing on the moon."
    "Which means you gave birth to me when you were, what—ten?"
    "It's been known to happen, dear."
    "Stop moving," Benedita ordered as she dusted Irene's private parts with perfumed puffs of baby powder. Snow falling on pubies.
    "Princess, you really should get waxed," Irene said.
    "No thank you, Mother."
    "I've seen that bush of yours. You could use a weed whacker."
    "Mother!"
    Benedita hoisted one of Irene's legs over a shoulder.
    "I'm just trying to help, dear. Men love those bare, smooth loins. Probably the Lolita fantasy."
    "I'm not having this discussion."
    "Just trying to help, dear." The Queen studied her daughter a moment, pursing her lips. "And what have you done to your hair? Your other hair."
    "Nothing."
    "You've tinted it. I can tell."
    "I haven't done anything except wash it."
    "I liked it better the other way."
    "What other way! Dammit, Mother, you're impossible."
    "Don't raise your voice. Men can't stand a woman who's shrill."
    Victoria sighed. "God, why did I come here?"
    "Why, to keep me company, of course."
    Victoria blurted it out: "I'm not sure about moving in with Steve."
    "Well, I am. It's a terrible idea. Why you ever suggested it is beyond me. A man won't buy the cow if he's getting the crème fraiche for free."
    "I thought you didn't want me to marry Steve."
    "Oooh," The Queen sighed as Benedita slathered the warm beeswax concoction over her crotch. "I don't, Princess. The man is totally unsuitable for you."
    "Why? Because he's not Episcopalian or because he's not rich?"
    "Ouch!" A tearing sound and The Queen yelped. "Jesus, Benedita . . ."
    Benedita smiled as she examined the glob of hardened wax she'd just yanked from The Queen.
    "I'm not a bigot and I'm not that materialistic," Irene said. "But I can't help wondering, dear. If you're going to be with a Jewish man, why couldn't it be one with some wherewithal? Goodness knows, there are enough of them."
    "I knew this would be useless."
    Another rip. Another "Ouch!"
    "I'm just worried that we're too different, Mother."
    "Of course you are, dear."
    As if it's a given. As if there's no need to discuss it.
    "Keep the landing strip narrow, Benedita," Irene instructed as the Brazilian woman plucked stray hairs with tiny tweezers. "It makes the man look bigger."
    More concerned about the aesthetics of her private parts than about her only child's happiness.
    Victoria decided to try once more. One more stab at drawing her mother away from her own sybaritic pleasures. "Steve did something incomprehensible, and I