The afternoon when his mother said they needed to have a little talk. He frowned and kept walking.
But then again, he also remembered the day before that day.
His mum had taken him to his favourite Indian restaurant and let him order as much vindaloo as he wanted.
Then she’d laughed and said, “Why the hell not?” and ordered plates of it for herself, too.
They’d started farting before they’d even got back in the car.
On the drive home, they could hardly talk from laughing and farting so hard.
Conor smiled just thinking about it. Because it hadn’t been a drive home.
It had been a surprise trip to the cinema on a school night, to a film Conor had already seen four times but knew his mum was sick to death of.
There they were, though, sitting through it again, still giggling to themselves, eating buckets of popcorn and drinking buckets of Coke.
Conor wasn’t stupid. When they’d had the “little talk” the next day, he knew what his mum had done and why she had done it.
But that didn’t take away from how much fun that night had been. How hard they’d laughed.
How anything had seemed possible. How anything good could have happened to them right then and there and they wouldn’t have been surprised.
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