Page 57 of Protecting Peyton

March sent a wink in my direction.

I guessed Karla’s name confusion was a part of her shtick.

Duke didn’t get the bear-hug routine I’d gotten last night. Maybe it was reserved for potential daughters-in-law.

Karla hobbled back to the stove and poured some more batter into the pan.

March switched his attention from me to his mother. “Mom, what happened to your leg?”

“It’s nothing,” she scoffed. “Planting fastest, the doc said. Whatever that is—some kind of old people’s problem, but at least I don’t have to pee every hour like Roger.”

“Who’s Roger?” March asked.

“Just a guy who’s worse than a pregnant woman,” she said. “He can barely last long enough to drive to Burger King.” Karla brought over the plate of pancakes. “Start on these. I’ll make some more.”

Duke and I sat down to start in on her pancakes.

“Who’s Roger?” March repeated, still standing. He wasn’t going to let this go.

My first bite was very tasty, even without syrup. “This is great.”

She waved her spatula. “Just one of the men I’m seeing.”

“Men?” March asked, incredulously.

“Karla, these are great,” Duke added.

“Mom, I’m not sure?—”

“Sit and eat,” she commanded, cutting him off.

Reluctantly, March did.

“He’s one of my options,” she continued.

“Mom—”

“What?” she barked, turning and cooking her son with a stare. “I’m old, not dead. Do you think I can’t have a life?”

That put March on defense. “I didn’t say that.”

She leveled the cooking implement at him. “Some of the men in my age bracket have…let’s say technical difficulties, if you know what I mean.” She bent her other hand at the wrist before turning back to the stove.

“Not another word,” March insisted. He didn’t want to hear about his mother’s sex life, and who would blame him?

“And the pills aren’t always enough,” she added.

“Mom, we’re having breakfast,” March cautioned.

“What?” Karla asked. “You should learn about this and take care of yourself so it doesn’t happen to you when you get older.” She did the bent-wrist thing again.

A red-faced Duke looked down at his plate.

I swallowed a giggle.

March tried redirection. “I want to hear about your leg.”

“Men think it’s their problem,” she went on. “And their cross to bear, but what about the poor women who have to endure a limp noodle? Huh?”