Even more, she has qualities that Stewie doesn’t appreciate. I’ve been to Harry’s Diner a few times, and every time I’ve gone, my son’s girlfriend is at the top of her game. She can sometimes handle two sections at once, and her approach is bubbly, with a bright smile, and excellent service. Though she’s moving quickly, she makes every customer feel like a friend.
Of course, I was hoping some of that work ethic would rub off on Stewie given his unsuccessful career as a pro video game player. But if anything, Serenity’s being successful at her job has caused a riff between the two of them. I snort. This is even more proof that my son is a loser.
Finally, the TV shuts off and I hear Stewie’s footsteps shuffling as they come up the stairs and stop outside my door. Fuck. Does he want to talk? Sure enough, I hear a knock and then my son’s voice calls out.
“Dad, I’m hungry. Could you make me a snack?”
Is he fucking kidding me? My eyes practically bug out of my head.
“I think you’re fully capable of making yourself something,” I call through the closed door.
Stewie shuffles his feet a bit. “Geez, you sound like Serenity, Dad. Come on, please? Can’t you just heat up some pasta for me? I’m really hungry, and I’ve got a big day of practice tomorrow, so I need to get a good night’s sleep. That won’t happen if my stomach is empty.”
Again, is he fucking kidding me? I wrench the door open.
“So, I heard your fight with Serenity,” I say in a sour voice, my eyebrows raised. “Pretty harsh, wouldn’t you say?
Stewie rolls his eyes. “Yeah I know, right? All I did was to ask her to pop some popcorn for us, and she screwed it up! I swear, that girl has rocks for brains.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“No, she doesn’t have rocks for brains. You should try harder. Not all women want to wait on their man hand and foot.”
My son scowls.
“Well, if you like her so much, then maybe you should date her,” Stewie jokes.
Ha. He doesn’t know how badly I’d love to take him up on that offer because would I enjoy that lush figure in my bed? Hell yeah. Not only that, but I’d never force her to make popcorn for us, much less watch some stupid car chase movie.
“I am going to miss her breakfasts, though,” Stewie says a bit dreamily, shuffling his feet again. “You know those omelets she always makes in the morning? The ones with mushroom and bell peppers? I swear, those eggs were the best part of our relationship.”
I stare at my son, disbelieving. He has a girlfriend who’s a solid 10, and he thinks her omelets are the best part of being with her? Of course, I’ll never forget the times I walked downstairs to find Serenity in nothing but a long t-shirt frying up some bacon on the stove, but still. My arousal had nothing to do with her cooking, and everything to do with those big breasts and naked thighs I glimpsed below the soft cotton material.
“You know what? Make your own pasta,” I say abruptly before shutting the door in my son’s face. To my surprise, Stewie actually goes back downstairs, and for a moment, I think he’s going to cook. But then, he picks up the phone and orders a pizza. A new movie goes on, and this one seems even dumber than the first judging from the series of explosions and car crash sound effects.
I’ve had enough. I strip down to my pajama pants and climb into bed, letting the cool sheets soothe me. It’s been a trying night, and I want to sleep it off. After all, what am I supposed to do about my son? He’s such a fucking loser and I want to kick him out, but where would Stewie go? He has no way to support himself, and would probably end up homeless.
Tossing and turning, I lie there, staring up at the ceiling. A vision of Serenity’s pretty features comes to mind, and only then, do I slowly fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
3
Serenity
* * *
The Hard Swallow might be the perfect name for a bar. I’ve always loved passing by the sign because their logo is a bird – a swallow, more specifically – holding a pint of beer, which is kind of cute. The swallow doesn’t have hands, so it just wraps its wing around a big stein, with a cheery cartoon smile on its face. Or its beak, come to think of it.
Right now though, I’m not feeling cheery. I just want to get drunk, and wash the rest of the night away. The bar is packed since it’s a Friday night, but that’s not going to stop me, and I manage to find a stool at the end of the long wooden counter.