He Is A Momma's-Boy

"Well," Lola encourages, a hand on her hip. "Aren't you going to apologize?"

I stare as the wind nips at her strange, chopped blonde hair and the sway of her bright orange dress. Ever since I apologized to her the day after I ran away from her, she has stuck to my side like glue, introducing me to her psychology professor and somehow signing me up for free therapy sessions. The sessions have helped and Lola, with her encouragement and vivacious personality, has cracked me out of my socially ignorant shell and become my first friend.

I sigh, and turn my attention to the gravestone in front of me. "Can't I at least wipe off her gravestone?" I whine. Over the last couple of weeks, I've found that when I whine, Lola is as malleable as microwaved butter.

"No," she says, but I can hear the waver in her voice that comes from the use of 'the whine'. "It's part of your therapy."

"Please?" I ask again in a childish beg. The autumn wind whips at my dark locks and a strange tingle of unfamiliarity shivers down my spine from my hair, devoid of hair gel, freely flipping around my temples.

"Fine," she surrenders, "But only with your flesh and blood and spit because this is your mother and she gave you hers- Hey! I thought I got rid of all your antiseptic wipes!"

I disregard her attempt at humor and authority and wipe away the grime and dirt accumulated over years of neglect. "Hi, mum," I whisper into the stone. "I'm sorry for forgetting about you. Your Ollie is back and this time, he's going to stay."

The End

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