drabble: dangling conversation

(It is surprisingly difficult to write a deliberate miscommunication when you yourself try to avoid such things. Try it sometime. So this might not be as good as some things, but it's a work in progress. It doesn't help that Alex and Falda's relationship is amazingly difficult to quantify and yet begs to be written about these days.)

The kids were gone.
She knew they'd go eventually, of course. Right now they were probably somewhere near the California-Nevada border, Sander the picture of cool chic with his sassy red convertible, his leather driving gloves and slim black sunglasses, Tieunis tossing cheese puffs into his mouth and looking back with disappointed regret as the wind caught one and sent it spiralling into the desert sand.
Knowing didn't really change the empty poison inside, though. It just shifted it into something more known, more palatable, instead. Falda sighed and slumped sideways into a chair, twirling a blonde lock around two pinktipped fingers.
They'd be home at Thanksgiving, of course. Months away, but it was a date to hold to, anyway. And she could always fly out to see them - she hadn't been to New York in a while. It would be nice to go to a show, maybe. To shop.
But hopes and plans were for savoring later. At the moment, the boys were somewhere on Route 66, and ...
"Hey."
Alex loped into the bubble of her awareness, his hair darkened by water and sending deep blue rivulets down his long-sleeved t-shirt.
"Hi." she replied shortly.
In response, he sprawled across the sofa and twisted open the bottle of beer in his hand, taking a long drink from it before searching for the remote control. The TV sprang to life, and some baseball game flickered across the screen, tiny men in near-identical white uniforms scattered across the false green of ballpark grass.
"Do you miss the kids?" she blurted.
"I'm sure they're fine." A yawn split Alex's face.
Falda's eyes drifted toward the window, focusing on the grey-black strip of empty driveway. "They probably are." she continued in a distracted voice. "I"m sure they are."
The baseball announcer faded back into the foreground. Falda sighed, drawing the pet lock of hair into a tighter curl around her fingers.
"They're fine."
"I know."
"You want me to call them?"
"No, no."
"Because they're fine. They're going to college, they're fine."
"I know."
"Good."
Falda shifted in the armchair and folded her legs underneath her. "Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you miss them?"
"They're fine, Falda." Alex sighed. "I can call them if you want me to, but I don't see the point."
"What else is new." she muttered, getting to her feet and stalking down the hall. "Forget it! Never mind. I'm going out."
The drone of the announcer continued on in the background. Alex shrugged and took another drink, reaching over for his bag of corn chips.

Various bits

Something I don't understand: (note that I am a Canadian, a vegetarian, and am generally anti-guns. My anti-gun stance is not likely to change. But I listen to intelligently informed opinions. Anyway, continue on.)

Why do we need assault weapons? I mean, I can (reluctantly, remember, I don't eat meat) understand that some people enjoy hunting. I can understand why some people feel they need a handgun for protection. But I don't comprehend why assault weapons aren't illegal. Are there any reasonable applications for them at all outside of the military, or is this just a 'my gun is bigger than yours' kind of thing?

---

I have pizza, I have new headphones, I have had good Caesar salad and a walk outside. The kiddo will be home in about half an hour or so; life is good. I have library books.
Fun Portlandia happenings this afternoon: guy on the corner of SW 5th and Yamhill downtown, panhandling by shouting 'Save the Hippies!'
Looks like I'll be going to Salem this weekend for the convention, so internet access may be spotty. I'll be around in the evenings though, I doubt Salem's a hotspot of night life.

Edit: okay, I guess I'm not going to Salem - they /don't/ have child care after all for the exhibits and I don't want to wangle The Boy around in a crowded noisy hall of people. Ah well, I'm not really heartbroken.

Adventures in preschool

It's always interesting sending speech-delayed or otherwise non-talkative kids off somewhere like preschool, especially if the preschool buses and you don't have a whole lot of interaction with the teachers. Because you can't ask them 'did you have a good day?' and actually get anything that could be construed as a meaningful answer. So you've got to go by your nonverbal clues.
Yesterday the kiddo came home covered in perfume smell. Fortunately it was of a brand that doesn't set off my MCS. So (as I was mentioning to kay_willow last night) he either has a much older girlfriend, or someone figured dousing themselves in cheap perfume was an appropriate alternative to a shower.
Today he comes home covered in wet Ritz cracker crumbs. Well, not covered - it's not like we have a breaded child here - but you know what I mean.
Someday he might even tell me the story of his adventures.

Sports and Wine

This week's non_plot was "lonely nights." For the record, Falda is the twins' mother. She's a lovely woman caught in a rather uncomfortable situation. (Oh, yeah, and Ilse would probably be labelled not-worksafe. She's just that way.)
( Just the facts, ma'am. )