Crocodile tears

“You can stop the crocodile tears. You know whining gets you nowhere with me.”

I try to keep my voice even, not needing to share our conversation with my fellow cafe denizens. All I want is a quiet morning to just sit and sip my latte.

“This is settled. I’m not arguing with you.”

Holding the phone away from my mouth, I blow on my hot tea. I don’t want to ruin what’s left of my day by burning my mouth.

“I treat you like one of my kids, because you act like one of my kids. No, wait. My kids understand the concept of ‘gratitude’.”

I can envision my sister actually stomping her foot as she delivers her mothering accusation.

“You’re not interested in setting your life right, you know what to do, you just won’t.” I hate how I do sound more like her parent than her sibling. “It’s all about the drama. You love the attention more.”

Holding the phone at arm’s length, I roll my eyes at her histrionics, silently snickering at my unintended, but apropos, pun.

“You know that I did not call you that. More, more… you love the attention MORE.”

Resting my head in my free hand, I realize how tired I suddenly am.

“Roger said he would buy a bus ticket for you, but that was beneath you. The fumes, the smell, you might have to share space with the Great Unwashed. You’ll just have to put up with me for the four-hour drive.”

I can hear her sniffing, but know it’s all for effect.

“You’re right, nothing can melt my cold, cold heart.”

My tea, no longer hot, has lost its appeal.

“Just be ready by the time I get there,” I wasn’t looking forward to our trip. “You are going to move in with me, no more excuses. I know… it’s only until you get back on your feet.”

Closing the call, I enter a Google search, “Do crocodiles eat their young?”