Fictionlet
Isadora poured a bit more Perriér into her glass and said, “So one day he finally said, ‘Darling, would you make me the happiest man on Earth, and consent to give me a divorce?’ To which I naturally replied, ‘Dearest! I thought you’d never ask! Yes, yes, an hundred times yes!’ Or something like that.”
“That’s not the way I remember it going,” said Brigid. “You never called dad ‘dearest’ in your life.”
“I’m just trying to put it in terms that Greg here can understand,” Isadora replied.
“Thanks,” said Greg, smiling weakly over his alfredo. “I appreciate the effort.”
“Anyway, Brigid’s father and I were never closer than after we got divorced. It’s not an easy thing to go through life in love with somebody you can’t stand living with, but we did it. Until he died, anyway. I don’t think his family ever really did understand it.”
“Mmm,” said Greg.
“So what about your parents, then?” Isadora asked.
“Both gone, I’m afraid,” said Greg.
“Brothers and sisters?”
“Only child.”
“No family at all?”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite say that. I have an uncle, and a fair number of cousins and such, but I’m pretty self-sufficient.”
“Oh, god, your uncle,” said Brigid.
Isadora smiled conspiratorially. “That bad, is he?”
“Well–” said Greg.
“He looks like a cross between Jerry Garcia and Santa Claus,” said Brigid, “and seems to spend his free time sitting around coming up with new and improved mooching techniques.”
“Ha!” said Isadora.
“Yeah, but–” said Greg.
“Complete lech, too,” Brigid said.
“Nice,” said Isadora. “I hope this guy didn’t raise you or anything.”
“Well, no, but he’s not that bad really. He just has a few weird ideas about things.”
“Don’t we all?” said Isadora.
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