Separation

By Michelle Huneven

I was in bed with Herbie when the loud knocking started. It was the middle of the afternoon.

What the hell? Herbie said, pulling a pillow over his head.

We waited for it to stop. It didn’t.

Maybe my car’s blocking a garage, I said. Knotting my bathrobe, I answered the door. My mother stepped into the threshold.

I’ve had it with your father, she said.
Hang on just a second, Mom.

I mean it, she said, brushing past me and into the living room. A short and tanned woman with a cap of mink-brown hair showing just a few glistening threads of white, she pivoted and surveyed my one-bedroom, bungalow-court apartment. In her hand was a small plaid suitcase.

Stay right there, I said, and slipped into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

My mom, I whispered. Herbie yanked on his jeans. There was no question of an introduction; Herbie was too new to my life and far too shy to meet my mother, especially under these circumstances. Go through the bathroom, I said. Shirtless, Herbie, all six-foot-two and 240 pounds of him, scuttled off…

This is an excerpt of an article originally published in Slake No. 1. To read the entire story, purchase or subscribe at shop.slake.la.