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‘I’m not that much older,’ Mary said. ‘And it seems a little unlikely.’

‘You are sexy, though,’ Joanie said.

Mary laughed. ‘This has been a very helpful conversation,’ she said. ‘But it’s getting out of hand. Thank you, Joanie. And whatever you shared will remain between us.’

‘Not a problem. I’ll do some digging, OK? And keep me posted on your hot new neighbour.’

‘I will,’ Mary said. ‘But I doubt there will be much to report.’

Baby Seagull

‘Mom!’

Otis’s cry drifted up the stairs. It would soon be followed by another. He was like a baby seagull, cawing for its mother’s attention, even at the age of sixteen. He would keep going at regular intervals until she replied.

‘Mom!’ A pause. ‘Mom!’

It was louder now. Should Mary reply? And if so, how? A long, drawn out Yeeeessss, to let him know that whatever his demand was she knew already it would be far less urgent than his insistent cries suggested.

I don’t have any socks!

Look in your drawer.

A pause, then Oh, thanks.

Or maybe: There’re none in here!

Look in the dryer, then.

She wanted to say Think for your fucking self. What the hell’s going to happen when you go to college and have to fend for yourself? Are you going to walk around barefoot? Or with no underwear? She was afraid the answer would, most likely, be yes.

And this person had recently been granted a driving licence. The thought of him piloting a vehicle alone filled her with terror.

The weird thing was, she wanted to help him. He was her son, her vehicle-operating-but-unable-to-locate-socks sixteen-year-old, and she loved him. Moreover, in some small way (actually maybe not that small) she liked still being the person who he called for when he needed socks or a T-shirt or his AirPods or soccer cleats.

‘Mom! Where are you?’

‘Upstairs,’ she said.

‘Where upstairs?’

Where do you fucking think?

‘In my bedroom.’

A few seconds later she heard his footsteps on the stairs and then the door opened and a powerful miasma swept into the room and threatened to choke her.

He was red and sweating and extraordinarily smelly. The odour was somewhere between a week-old garbage can and a suppurating fungal growth. She recoiled farther into the room but there was no escaping the stench.

‘I made varsity,’ he announced in the flat monotone that she hoped was no more than a teenage phase. And that was it: no preamble, no context. Nothing about his feelings. I’m really pleased or I was worried I wouldn’t. Just the announcement that he had succeeded in his goal of being selected for the high school’s most prestigious team.

His lack of eloquence left her similarly lost for words. ‘Well done!’ She smiled. ‘You must be pleased?’

He shrugged. ‘S’pose.’

‘Come on! I know it’s not cool to admit it, but you worked hard for it all summer. You can say you’re pleased.’

‘Would have been OK if I didn’t.’