Mint Chewing Gum
“Wait,” she said as he reached for the door handle. “Isn’t this your sister’s car?”
She pointed at a yellow Toyota Corolla.
“Yes. I was afraid she’d come.”
He put his hands on his lap. She turned to him. Her hair hit the mint air freshener. Expired. The air still smelled like a long-unwashed car interior mixed with her floral perfumes.
“You know what that means, right?”
He nodded twice before answering.
“Three days of my mother telling us how proud she is of her grandkids and asking when we have children,” he said.
She extended her index finger and waved her hand sideways.
“No. No. Not only that. You forgot who will be forced to play with the kid and change her diapers,” she said.
He looked at the brake pedal. Scrubbed the dirt off it with the sole of his shoe.
“So you can learn how fun this really is. I know,” he whispered.
“Please tell me you didn’t know she is there.”
“Of course I didn’t. I wouldn’t want to come either. Do you think I like hearing how cool it is to be a father? And that I’m not a real man until I have a child? Or that I like seeing my father and my sister’s husband stop talking when I walk into the room like I’m some child who can’t witness an adult conversation.”
“Babe. Babe.” She touched his knee and squeezed gently. “Stop.”
He put his hand on her hand.
“Sorry. It just hit me.”
He reached to touch her face, and she closed her eyes.
“We must go inside and survive this,” he said.
“Give me a few more minutes, please.”
He rubbed her cheek. She breathed faster as he touched her eyelid. She backed off.
“We don’t have a gift for the child!”
“Relax. We didn’t know she would be there.”
“No. No. They won’t understand. And the child already doesn’t like me.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer.
“Babe. If she doesn’t like you she won’t want to play with you. Isn’t that the point?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Good idea. I wish I had a chocolate bar though. I would eat it in front of the child.”
“Now, you are overreacting.”
“I just want to get kicked out of here.”
She opened the glove compartment. Tossed the insurance papers on the ground.
“What are you looking for?” He asked.
A pack of mint chewing gum fell on the floor. She picked it up. Smelled the packaging.
“Nothing. I thought I saw your mother in the window. Just buying us some time. The gum is still good. I will give that to the kid.”
“Good idea.”
He pulled the sun visor down. Pushed it back up. Turned around and reached into the empty space behind her seat.
“Hope she gets diarrhea,” she said.
He swallowed and looked at her.
“I hope you aren’t serious.”
“It’s just a gum.”
“Which you hope is expired.”
She put the gum pack under his nose. “It still smells good. It’s perfectly fine.”
He took the gum pack out of her hand. Looked at the expiration date.
“Expired two years ago.”
“Fine.”
She tossed the gum pack into the ashtray. Then pulled it out and pocketed it in her jeans. She pushed his hand away when he reached for the pocket.
“Can’t we just drive away?” She asked.
“You know we can’t.”
She turned to him and put her hand on his chest.
“What if I told them I got an urgent call from work?”
“An urgent call from a florist shop on Sunday?”
She clenched her fingers on his chest.
“Crap,” he said.
She looked up at him.
“What?”
“The kid is waving at us.”