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Mom waggles her eyebrows. “I see your husband isn’t letting you wear much clothing. He’ll fit right in with our family.”
And so it begins. I clear my throat. “I’d like to introduce said husband, Art.”
Art ushers them to step in—probably to avoid the dreaded handshake under the doorframe. Yep. As soon as they’re inside, he extends his hand for a shake.
Dad scoffs at it. “You’re Russian. Give me a kiss.”
And it continues.
Art is a good sport, though. With a wide grin, he hugs Dad, then kisses him on each cheek—which is hopefully what Dad meant. For all I know, there may be an old Hyman tradition for the father to French his new son-in-law.
Mom looks on with jealousy, and I’m pretty sure she’s wishing Art was kissing her.
When Art and Dad finally disconnect, she eagerly says, “My turn.”
I sigh as Art hugs and kisses her with an even wider grin.
Mom looks as happy as Petunia—the pig she brought to orgasm.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Hyman,” Art says after he somehow extricates himself from Mom’s clutches.
“Not even my father goes by Mr. Hyman,” Dad says. “You’re part of the family now. Call me Dad.”
“And me, Mom,” Mom says.
A barrage of emotions flits across Art’s face. Was that longing? Gratitude? Joy? Sadness? It’s all too quick to read.
“I will, Mom,” he says, savoring the last word. He turns to Dad and seems to equally enjoy saying, “Dad, please come in.”
Dad looks ecstatic, probably because this is the closest he’s ever gotten to having a son. The other sextuplets and I owe our existence to my parents’ desire for a boy. After the twin girls, they resorted to assisted reproduction technology with that hope in mind, and Murphy’s Law took care of the rest.
“Please take your shoes off,” I say.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Art protests.
“No,” Mom says. “We’ve read about this. Russians take their shoes off when they enter, so we will too.”
Dad toes off his raggedy sandals. “Also, this is an opportunity for me to see your mother’s beautiful feet.”
Please, please don’t explain to Art what that means. For the love of sanity. My parents like to “research” kinks, and one that seems to have caught Dad’s liking is the foot fetish.
Mom takes her shoes off, and I spot red nail polish, an ankle bracelet, and toe rings—evidence that Dad’s foot fetish is still alive and well.
“Here.” Art produces two pairs of house slippers in the correct sizes. Wow. Someone really prepared for this.
Mom slides her feet into the slippers, and Dad pouts.
Please don’t explain this. Please.
Thankfully, Dad says nothing about the disappearance of the objects of his lust and just puts on his own slippers.
“What kind of tea do you want?” Art asks, leading everyone to the kitchen. “We have black, green, Darjeeling, and Russian Caravan.”
Mom makes moony eyes at Art. “I’m thirsty for something Russian.”
“Me too,” Dad says.
The corners of Art’s mouth quirk—making me thirsty too. “Great choice.”
