he captioned it “the four ladies in my life” on his instagram page.
yeah, out of the dozens i may just not know about.
the thought makes me chuckle. i love teasing him about his past, especially since it clearly makes him uncomfortable talking about it. the more unsettled he gets, the more interested i get.
curiouser and curiouser…
suddenly i’m alice in fucking wonderland, chasing the rabbit the best way i know how — with questions. lots and lots and lots of them! down the rabbit hole we go.
‘there’s nothing to tell!’ he’d protest.
‘oh come on, jeff, don’t be juvenile,’ i’d press on. ‘think of it as a scientific interrogation. it’s nothing personal. we’re both adults having a mature conversation.’
he probably thinks i got a couple of loose screws in my head but i reckon all women do. and besides, i love stories. and i know for a fact (yes, FACT. i have tangible proof so i’m not as demented as he likes to think i am.) that he has heaps of sensational ones so you can’t really blame me, can you?
look, i’m a writer. stories is my juice. juicy stories send me tripping.
in my defense, i never take the information he offers (with the metaphorical gun pointed to his head) against him. partly because i’m cool with his past unless they interfere with the present. mainly because the dude has held his ground and has stubbornly refused to squeal.
don’t ask, don’t tell.
as far as communication is concerned, he has unknowingly adopted a military approach to my journalistic inquisitions. i need to intensify my ammunition.
so, yeah, in honor of mother’s day, happy mother’s day to all the women in jeff’s life — past, present, and future. my own mother included. (who may or may not be cocking a shotgun as we speak.)
*raven at 3 years old