THE CONFERENCE by Diane Nelson
“No, I really don’t give a flying f—,” I went eyes-on-stalks, bit my tongue, and dug my right hand into Sam’s fleshy thigh, “… what your friends are doing, you are not getting a tattoo, young lady.”
My voice took on that hated strident tone, the one I swore I’d never use after a lifetime with my own mother but unfortunately genetics had won out.
Sam seemed to be doing some deep-breathing exercises next to me. I made my final mom-threats and clicked the phone closed, then looked over at him, curious. His eyes squeezed shut in a rictus of … oh shit. While I’d been giving Jess her daily dose of long-distance parenting, in my agitation, I’d been more or less massaging Sam’s inner thigh—to use a baseball metaphor—high and inside.
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