"Are you sure this isn't decaf?" I ask her.
"It's leaded, hon. Trust me." she whimpers and saunters off to pour more decaf across the courtyard cafe.
"Babe, you look like something the last cat dragged in. What's up?"
Greg knows me too. He can see confusion and despair on my face a mile away. Course, I'm not even attempting to hide what I'm feeling. How is it the new year always brings trauma... or at least it feels like that.
"Four words, Greg -- Mr. and Mrs. Espinoza."
Eric's parents have taken their toll, like creditors, like sharks. It's not their fault exclusively, some of that belongs to Eric and I. But, "she never shuts up, Greg. NEVER."
And she never stops cooking. She's put away five gallons of preserves, frozen tons of Cioppino, tossed out all my whole wheat flour and dried fruit, and replaced it all with DAIRY.
"Let's roll her in beer batter and deep fry her, Andrew."
We laugh. Thank God, they're leaving tomorrow.
It feels nice here in the sun. Greg takes off his shirt to get some rays. Everyone looks. He loves it.
"Greg, I've been thinking about those pictures." How in the world did I ever think it was a good idea? Knowing in my gut that somewhere, someday they'd come back and bite me in the ass.
Greg passes it all off nonchalantly. But I keep begging him for the negatives and suddenly I feel like I'm a West Hollywood Scarlet O'Hara decrying "I'll never take pictures again."
Finally, Greg gives in and tells me he'll hand over the negatives when they come back from the lab.
I still feel funny.
Who's to say someone couldn't get the shots and make copies or duplicates? Who's to say the creepy kid at the photo store didn't sell them to some gay underground porn club for Southern Belle admirers?
"RELAX, Mary!" Greg snaps.
I do.
Or try to.
