Wednesday. Bastille Day. Also Molly Bloom’s birthday. She’s sixteen.
This morning I was eating my breakfast -- the usual, raw chicken livers served at room temperature. Mrs. Smith was cooking the daily scrapple while Mr. Smith read his paper and Roderick read about bond valuations or some shit.
Anyway, it was just a normal breakfast when Bibi strolled in stark bucko naked. Just like Pia said. It’s a Swedish thing, apparently.
Nobody batted an eyelash, except for Knuckles, who opened one eye. Mrs. Smith asked Bibi if she wanted some scrapple. Nay. She just wanted a piece of fruit.
Knuckles returned to his nap and I returned to my breakfast.
Roderick and Bibi left after breakfast -- dressed, presumably. I lingered in the kitchen while Mr. Smith made his sandwich. Mr. Smith styles himself to be a sandwich connoisseur, and there is an entire kitchen cabinet dedicated to his collection of mustards. It’s really kind of obnoxious. He can’t just slap meat and cheese between two slices of bread, he has to do this daily ritual.
Whatever.
I visited Dad in the early afternoon. Not good today. He just wanted to sleep. Mom was there, fretting. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
In the evening, Roderick threw a birthday party for Molly. The usual suspects came: Dickie, Megan, Amanda, Katie, Willard, Natasha, Bibi, Roger, Henry, and, of course, Molly. I went upstairs early to avoid getting fondled by that gang.
Bibi stayed over again, in the guest room. Molly slept over, too, in my bed. With Roderick. No sex, which is good; it was bad enough getting kicked in the middle of the night by both of them.
It was hell, I don’t think I slept a wink. I really need a bed of my own.
All for now.
