Provided by melting snow
Postpones next ice age
“Burma Shave,” said Dave.
Ellen punched his shoulder. “Don’t be rude.”
Dave glanced at the other “Parents’ Night” attendees. Everyone oohing and aahing at their progenies’ masterworks. “What? No, it’s okay. It just—”
“What?”
“Sounds like a fortune cookie.”
“It’s haiku. It’s supposed to sound like a fortune cookie.”
“Oh, well then, excellent.”
“How do you know about Burma Shave but not haiku?”
Dave shrugged. “Selective upbringing. Anything “American” was worth learning. Irish, Asians, Libras need not apply.”
“Libyans?”
“No, Libras. My folks thought if you were conceived pre-Valentine’s Day, your upbringing was suspect.”
“I was born November First.”
“I was rebelling when I met you.”
Ellen looked in his eyes. “You’re lying.”
“OK, Libras were fine. But Aquarii....”
Ellen led him to a collection of tissue-paper fishtank mosaics. “Speaking of Aquariuses.”
“Pfftt.”
Ms. Parsons, the third grade teacher shook their hands. “The students are excelling this year, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” Ellen said.
“Who’s your child?”
“Amanda,” Ellen said.
Ms. Parsons double-checked her clipboard. “I—I don’t have an Amanda.”
“Isn’t this Mrs. Farhquahr’s class?” Dave asked.
“There isn’t a Mrs. Farwhatsis at this school.”
“Fahrquahr.”
“You better leave before I call security.”
On the drive home Ellen asked, “Think we’ll ever have kids?”
Dave squeezed her thigh. “Like they say, ‛Rejuvenation postpones the next ice age.’”
No comments:
Post a Comment