He was so handsome once. Tall, lean, with tousled sandy-blond hair. Groupie-handsome. Poring over pictures of young honeypots, letting his imagination roar.
To see him now, pot belly, gray hair, everyone’s grandfather. But his vision remains 20/20. Hot chicks and fast cars. As if he never left that driveway, the one with the basketball hoop and the cherry Ghia.
Same with her, his other half, halfway across the world, sitting in bed nursing one helluva hangover, keeping up with the Kardashians. Her hair falls in a fistfuls, gray and black, mottled and bald in places. No scalpel can cure her disease. She watches spring breakers on TV, remembering yesterday when a college boy called her ma’am when he brought her oatmeal.
The boys will not come calling again. That ship has sailed.
I am my mother and grandmother, now. I scroll your Disney timeline, half-naked selfies, cleavage and duck lips, and the endless boomerang toast to the good life.
You, too, honey.
We’ll be waiting.