8
It was seven-fifteen when I finally turned my Honda into the driveway. I wanted nothing more in my life than to crawl between cool sheets and become unconscious, but I had a date. Three hundred and sixty-four days in a year I would have been happy to have a date with someone like Mike—even someone worse than Mike. But no, I had to have a date the one day I'd rather be premenstrual than go out.
This is one of the reasons why I have never married. Men have abysmal timing.
I passed through the kitchen to let my mother know I wouldn't be eating supper with them but got side-tracked when I heard a chocolate chip cookie calling my name.
“How do you expect me to teach the children to eat properly when you set such a bad example?” my mother asked. She snuck up better than Kel.
I thought for
