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Sports and Wine
This week's ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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.)
Ilse was the Joe Friday of her generation.
That was to say, she was very interested in facts. Just the facts, ma'am, and if you must have a side order of angst with that, at least get it on a separate plate. Which was probably why Ilse was so helpful when it came to trying to decide what to do about things. But occasionally it was also the reason Ilse wasn't very helpful when it came to deciding what to do about things.
"Your problem," Ilse pronounced, taking a drink from her margarita, "is that you're really a lesbian with an occasional craving for cock. You're like, Kinsey 5.5 or something."
"I know." Falda sighed, nervously wrapping her hair around her fingers. She couldn't meet Ilse's eyes - never could when this subject came up - so she stared out the window instead, across the blackened parking lot.
"So you need to get rid of Alex, or get him to get a sex change." Ilse swallowed, stretched, and refolded her legs underneath her. "And I might also suggest a brain transplant."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"The kids."
"Honey, the kids are no fools. The kids are smarter than the twit you married, and they have been since they were nine and I got Sander to balance my checkbook." Ilse reached across the table and gently moved the lock of hair from between Falda's teeth. "Stop that."
"I just don't know." Falda buried her face in her hands, hair fanning across the table. "I mean, if he'd just listen ..."
"What happened this time?"
"Nothing, really." Falda stared out at her best friend from behind a lattice of spread fingers and sighed, realizing that trying to get a lie past Ilse was near-impossible. "The usual. It's like talking to the cat. Except at least the cat looks like he's listening some of the time, so I can imagine."
"Falda, sweetheart, love." Ilse reached a ragged-nailed hand across the table and caught her hand again. "He's not going to break if you dump him. He's a big boy with a thick head. And if you're lucky he'll land on it and everything will be fine. The kids won't die either. Hell, if I know those two brats they probably won't even be surprised." Her voice softened a little as she massaged Falda's long, thin hands. "Look. Practically every week - and usually more often - you call me on the phone with that tight little wound-up-spring in your voice that says you're just about to break in some way and you ask me if I want to go get coffee or something. And I know it's about Alex. And you know it's about Alex. I'd say Alex knows it's about Alex, but I can't even think that with a straight face." She sighed. "Have you thought about marriage counselling?"
Falda made a face. "Impossible."
"I used to say the only thing that was impossible was licking your elbow. Now that I've seen Sofie lick her elbow, there might be some hope for Alex. Have you tried?"
"I could, I guess." Falda turned the drink around in her hands a few times and delicately licked the salt off of the rim. "I just don't know. I mean ... he means well, you know he does. He doesn't mean to be stupid. It's just something he does all the time. He's not intentionally dense. He's not abusive, at all. You know that. Daddy would kick his ass all the way from here to the Hague if he ever so much as tried." She sighed again. "No, he's a very nice, very kind, loveable guy, that worships me ... but who just isn't my type."
"So why do you stay with him?"
"I don't know." Falda repeated. "I just don't know." She dove to the bottom of the drink in one straight gulp and slammed the empty glass down on the table again. "I have no idea."
Ilse's purse began ringing, and she pulled out a small clamshell phone and turned away to answer it. After a surprisingly short conversation, she hung up and picked up her army jacket. "That was Sofie. I gotta run."
"What's up?"
"Gotta pick up some Pedialyte. Mary-Alice just chucked up her Spaghetti-O's." Ilse rolled her eyes dramatically. "Fun never stops at our place. Wanna come along, help me clean up the puke? Bring back memories."
"No thanks." Falda shook her head, laughing wryly. "I'll pass."
"You driving?"
"Nah, I'll take a cab home."
"Promise?" Ilse's raised eyebrow was half-mocking, half-serious, just like Ilse herself.
"I promise." Falda nodded. "I just want a few more minutes, that's all. An hour. I'll be fine. Might call my brother or something."
"Well, say hi to Spanky for me then." Ilse leaned over as though to kiss Falda on the cheek, but tipped her chin sideways at the last second to kiss the bitter-salt taste off of her lips. "Love you, chica."
"I love you too." Falda smiled, ruffling Ilse's strawberry-pink hair. "Always. Give Sofie a hug for me. And Mary-Alice, too."
"I will." Ilse picked up her purse and her ratty army jacket and left the bar in a contrail of vanilla musk and swaying hips. Falda sighed again and picked up her second margarita, trying to divine some kind of answers from it.
Nothing.
Nothing. That was the worst part. Dealing with Alex was like picking up what you thought was a menu, taking an hour and a half to translate it from Swahili to English using a pocket dictionary, and then finding out it was actually just a packing slip - too much work for so little reward. For the better part of her life, she'd had the kids - first to look after, then to present some kind of united front with her against the incomprehensible view that Alex seemed to have on the world.
And now, the kids were gone.
Falda sighed, stared out the window at the dim shapes of faraway cars on the freeway, and took another drink before pulling out her phone.
"Hey, Emma? It's Falda, hon. Is my brother in?"
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.)Ilse was the Joe Friday of her generation.
That was to say, she was very interested in facts. Just the facts, ma'am, and if you must have a side order of angst with that, at least get it on a separate plate. Which was probably why Ilse was so helpful when it came to trying to decide what to do about things. But occasionally it was also the reason Ilse wasn't very helpful when it came to deciding what to do about things.
"Your problem," Ilse pronounced, taking a drink from her margarita, "is that you're really a lesbian with an occasional craving for cock. You're like, Kinsey 5.5 or something."
"I know." Falda sighed, nervously wrapping her hair around her fingers. She couldn't meet Ilse's eyes - never could when this subject came up - so she stared out the window instead, across the blackened parking lot.
"So you need to get rid of Alex, or get him to get a sex change." Ilse swallowed, stretched, and refolded her legs underneath her. "And I might also suggest a brain transplant."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"The kids."
"Honey, the kids are no fools. The kids are smarter than the twit you married, and they have been since they were nine and I got Sander to balance my checkbook." Ilse reached across the table and gently moved the lock of hair from between Falda's teeth. "Stop that."
"I just don't know." Falda buried her face in her hands, hair fanning across the table. "I mean, if he'd just listen ..."
"What happened this time?"
"Nothing, really." Falda stared out at her best friend from behind a lattice of spread fingers and sighed, realizing that trying to get a lie past Ilse was near-impossible. "The usual. It's like talking to the cat. Except at least the cat looks like he's listening some of the time, so I can imagine."
"Falda, sweetheart, love." Ilse reached a ragged-nailed hand across the table and caught her hand again. "He's not going to break if you dump him. He's a big boy with a thick head. And if you're lucky he'll land on it and everything will be fine. The kids won't die either. Hell, if I know those two brats they probably won't even be surprised." Her voice softened a little as she massaged Falda's long, thin hands. "Look. Practically every week - and usually more often - you call me on the phone with that tight little wound-up-spring in your voice that says you're just about to break in some way and you ask me if I want to go get coffee or something. And I know it's about Alex. And you know it's about Alex. I'd say Alex knows it's about Alex, but I can't even think that with a straight face." She sighed. "Have you thought about marriage counselling?"
Falda made a face. "Impossible."
"I used to say the only thing that was impossible was licking your elbow. Now that I've seen Sofie lick her elbow, there might be some hope for Alex. Have you tried?"
"I could, I guess." Falda turned the drink around in her hands a few times and delicately licked the salt off of the rim. "I just don't know. I mean ... he means well, you know he does. He doesn't mean to be stupid. It's just something he does all the time. He's not intentionally dense. He's not abusive, at all. You know that. Daddy would kick his ass all the way from here to the Hague if he ever so much as tried." She sighed again. "No, he's a very nice, very kind, loveable guy, that worships me ... but who just isn't my type."
"So why do you stay with him?"
"I don't know." Falda repeated. "I just don't know." She dove to the bottom of the drink in one straight gulp and slammed the empty glass down on the table again. "I have no idea."
Ilse's purse began ringing, and she pulled out a small clamshell phone and turned away to answer it. After a surprisingly short conversation, she hung up and picked up her army jacket. "That was Sofie. I gotta run."
"What's up?"
"Gotta pick up some Pedialyte. Mary-Alice just chucked up her Spaghetti-O's." Ilse rolled her eyes dramatically. "Fun never stops at our place. Wanna come along, help me clean up the puke? Bring back memories."
"No thanks." Falda shook her head, laughing wryly. "I'll pass."
"You driving?"
"Nah, I'll take a cab home."
"Promise?" Ilse's raised eyebrow was half-mocking, half-serious, just like Ilse herself.
"I promise." Falda nodded. "I just want a few more minutes, that's all. An hour. I'll be fine. Might call my brother or something."
"Well, say hi to Spanky for me then." Ilse leaned over as though to kiss Falda on the cheek, but tipped her chin sideways at the last second to kiss the bitter-salt taste off of her lips. "Love you, chica."
"I love you too." Falda smiled, ruffling Ilse's strawberry-pink hair. "Always. Give Sofie a hug for me. And Mary-Alice, too."
"I will." Ilse picked up her purse and her ratty army jacket and left the bar in a contrail of vanilla musk and swaying hips. Falda sighed again and picked up her second margarita, trying to divine some kind of answers from it.
Nothing.
Nothing. That was the worst part. Dealing with Alex was like picking up what you thought was a menu, taking an hour and a half to translate it from Swahili to English using a pocket dictionary, and then finding out it was actually just a packing slip - too much work for so little reward. For the better part of her life, she'd had the kids - first to look after, then to present some kind of united front with her against the incomprehensible view that Alex seemed to have on the world.
And now, the kids were gone.
Falda sighed, stared out the window at the dim shapes of faraway cars on the freeway, and took another drink before pulling out her phone.
"Hey, Emma? It's Falda, hon. Is my brother in?"
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