I took a cooking class to meet women. Instead, I met Rosie. With ocean blue eyes, a vibrant smile, and sweet personality, Rosie was a young ninety. She was also completely convinced I was her missing son.
On the first day of class, I arrived late. My reward was a spot in the back next to a five-foot geriatric who, I was told, took the class regularly. “Rosie can make everything we cook,” said the instructor. I held back a comment about not actually being there to learn to cook and shuffled to the back. The moment I took my spot and turned to greet my new partner her eyes lit up and her hands reached out to grip my shoulders.
“Sam!”
“It’s Michael . . .” I started, but she was already pulling me into a hug. I could have easily resisted her bird-like arms, but I let her pull me in. Her head only came up to my chest and I patted her shoulder awkwardly.
She pushed me back and looked up to my face, “Where on earth have you been? How could you do that to your mother? You just stopped visiting, stopped calling. I was so worried.”
I immediately disliked Sam.
