P.S. I Still Love You

This cake sounds horrible. I try to nod in a diplomatic way, but Stormy is onto me. Crossly she
says, “Do you think I had time to sit around baking cakes from scratch like some boring old
housewife?”
“You could never be boring,” I say on cue, because it’s true and because I know it’s what she
wants to hear.
“You could do with a little less baking and a little more living life.” She’s being prickly, and she’s
never prickly with me. “Youth is truly wasted on the young.” She frowns. “My legs ache. Get me
some Tylenol PM, would you?”
I leap up, eager to be in her good graces again. “Where do you keep it?”
“In the kitchen drawer by the sink.”
I rummage around, but I don’t see it. Just batteries, talcum powder, a stack of McDonald’s napkins,
sugar packets, a black banana. Covertly, I throw the banana in the trash. “Stormy, I don’t see your
Tylenol PM in here. Is there anywhere else it could be?”
“Forget it,” she snaps, coming up behind me and pushing me to the side. “I’ll find it myself.”
“Do you want me to put on some tea?” Stormy is old; that’s why she’s acting this way. She doesn’t
mean to be harsh. I know she doesn’t mean it.
“Tea is for old ladies. I want a cocktail.”
“Coming right up,” I say.