Okay, okay! I promise I'll get up and do my shopping, even though I stayed up way past midnight to finish writing this one. Before you read, I'll have you know I do not have any daughters. Or daughter-in-laws... yet.
Barbie tried the door knob. Locked. "Amber? Please, I never meant—"
'HOW COULD YOU MOTHER!" Barbie flinched. Amber shrieked vibrato, giving her words a contrasting harmony as if her daughter was possessed instead of just hurt and hating.
"He was my BOYFRIEND! DO YOU HEAR ME? [hiccup] MY FU-HU-HUH-KING BOYFRIEND!"
Barbie heard a thump and shattered glass. She wondered if it was the mother and daughter sterling-framed photo or the Amber and TJ photo inside the red-heart frame. Another thump-CRASH. The other one.
"fuh-[hiccup], FUCK YOU!"
"I know you're hurt. Let me tell you, you can't trust males—look at your father! He left me, six months pregnant, no job, no home, no—"
"Shut up shut up SHUT UP! This isn't about you and your sorry fucking past! THIS… is… a... bout... ME! AND HOW YOU RUE-[hiccup] RUINED MY LIFE!"
"AMBER! HE mauled ME!" Barbie rattled the door knob. "UNLOCK THIS DOOR!" Barbie inhaled, then slowly released her exhale. "Let's talk."
"I HATE YOU GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"
Barbie slammed both palms against the door. Two more years of hormones and tantrums. A teary, loud, (guilt-ridden) two years. Barbie sagged. She didn't think Amber would stay until her eighteenth birthday. She wasn't sure if she'd stay until next week.
Barbie stepped into the bathroom, splashed water on her face. She stared into the medicine cabinet mirror. If she squinted hard, almost shut her eyelids, she could see a little bit of Amber's youthful features on her own face; between the 'laugh lines' (wrinkles), underneath the 'sun-kissed' (leathery) skin, framed by her lustrous golden (wiry brass) hair with the dark (gray) roots. She wondered if she'd get to see Amber age.
No, Barbie hadn't meant to hurt her daughter, she just wanted to pretend she wasn't fast approaching "middle age." She wanted to feel attractive again, even desired. She wanted the ardor of a young, virile male at his peak instead of the prescription hard-on of an aging, pawing, paunchy widower. Was that wrong? Was it wrong to want to be called a MILF?
Temptation knocked, and she opened the door. It was TJ asking for Amber.
Barbie invited him in, said he could wait here and how 'bout a cold one? His eyes widened, a smile teased his lips and he said, sure, why not. She knew. Hell, everyone knew an eighteen year old wouldn't say no to beer.
So what if she unbuttoned one blouse button, bent into the refrigerator, let him check out her shapely ass? Two hours a day at the gym, her ass better look good, to any age male. Maybe she did touch (caress) his shoulder, rub (massage) his back, asked him (whispered) would he like something… else? And when he said, er, no ma'am, maybe, just maybe, she asked him if he was gay. Teased him, unbuttoned another button, called him queer boy. Leaned in closer to him, watched his lips separate, heard him pant.
He grabbed her blouse, popping off the rest of the buttons and yanked at her bra and mauled and poked and demonstrated he was a testosterone-influenced eighteen-year-old boy with two beers in him and a raging need to prove he was one-hundred-percent-genuine-heterosexual. And just as she panicked and wondered how stupid could she be, what was she doing… Amber came home.
Barbie knew she'd done wrong and could not make it right. Middle age taught her one bleak truth: MILF meant 'Mother Is Lonely Forever."