May 1992
Before ringing the doorbell, Tim runs a hand over his head – annoyed to discover he missed a patch at the back of his head.
“Sh*t.”
Way to make a great impression on Darlene’s family, loser. If he weren’t already running late, he’d drive back home and shave again. He rings the bell, remembering at the last second to take his sunglasses off and drop them into one of the large pockets of his black trench coat.
Maybe they won’t notice a little patch of sparse mouse-brown hair on the back of his otherwise naked head.
The door swings inwards, revealing a very prim woman. Has to be Val, the sister-in-law.
Why is he so nervous? This isn’t the first time he’s met a partner’s family. He’s forty-f*cking-one years old – why does he feel like a teenager?
Smiling, he extends a clammy hand. “Hi, I’m Tim. You must be Val.”
She blinks. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Kravchuk.” She looks like she’s just swallowed a lemon. “Please come in.” She stands stiffly aside to let him past – though her body language suggests she’d rather close the door and slam the deadbolt home.
“Erm, for you. Thanks for having me.” He offers her the bottle he brought.
The wait before she extends her hands to accept it feels interminably long. She stares at it as though puzzled. She smiles – but it makes her look confused rather than friendly.
Carefully balancing himself on the wall without using his hands, he pulls his boots off. Is it his imagination or does Val nod appreciatively? Sorry, he reminds himself sarcastically, that’s Mrs. Kravchuk to you.
Maybe she doesn’t expect a six-foot-three man dressed in all black to behave like a civilized person.
Well, f*ck her.
He takes a breath. No. Play nice.
Darlene doesn’t judge him. That’s all that matters.
He smiles at Val. She’s almost a foot shorter than he is. She’s dressed like she’s just come back from church; maybe she has. Darlene told him her brother and sister-in-law attended multiple services every week. Probably not on Friday evening though. But who knows?
She appears to be holding every muscle taut. Is she anxious or does she really have to pee?
“I’ll take your coat,” she says, holding a hand out.
He slips the coat off his shoulders. As he’s about to hand it over, it occurs to him that it’s probably the same length as she is. Taking care to make sure nothing falls out of the pockets, he folds it in half.
Her nose wrinkles as she takes it from him. D*mmit. Why hasn’t he tried harder to quit smoking? He’s probably stinking up this neatly groomed suburban house.
Eyes watering, she accepts it. She stands there blinking for a moment before saying, “I’ll just put this in the garage.”
If only the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
