Approachable

Last night Rian had dinner with the birds and the bees beneath a trailing arch of pink roses.

Twas quite nice, truly. The weather was perfect and the company, fine. The food a ttch mediocre.

Young Black Sheep's father attended. He is also known, in Rian's head, as Uncle Hands. He is an affable fellow who appreciates the female form loudly, and prefers to touch it as well, whenever possible. When Rian first met him, I found his lewd appraisal rather discomfitting. Now I have decided that it is rather harmless, although it does continue to make Rian's teeth grit.

Tis rather like having a fifteen year old boy for an Uncle. Yes, exactly like.

Young Black Sheep was carefully not mentioned. Rian does know, from 'inter office gossip', that the boy has been recently fired from his latest job. Apparently he was at least three hours late, daily. And no creature knows where he was off to during that time. This, in Rian's opinion, is not the simple action of a boy who smokes too much pot. He is becoming spiteful and violent. I am beginning to think there is a deeper problem.

So. Dinner. Was lovely. The garden was full of roses and hosta and hydrangea and ornamental grass and succulents and twists and turns and hidden bird baths and shady chairs and a plaster imp's mask hanging on a wall in the sunshine.

We stayed late, sampling wine. Rian studiously ignored the icecream and gorged upon olives and tomatoes instead.

I am tired, yet continue to catch the phantom scent of pink roses.