“It’s embarrassing,” Angie told her boyfriend.
“What is?” Neal asked.
“My mother wants to meet you,” she answered, “but I don’t want to take you to her house.”
“Why? Are you ashamed of me, embarrassed by me?”
“Oh no, Neal, not at all. It has nothing to do with you, I swear,” Angie told him.
“Well, what is it, then?” Neal wanted to know. “Why don’t you want me to meet your mother? Maybe it’s time. We’ve been dating for six months. ”
Angie took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Again, it’s not you. It’s my mother.”
“What about her?” Neal asked. “Is there something wrong with her?”
“There’s nothing physically or mentally wrong with her,” Angie said. “But she has a somewhat bizarre sense of style.”
“I don’t understand,” Neal said. “What do you mean by bizarre sense of style?”
“Never mind,” Angie said, grabbing Neal’s hand. “This is as good a time as any to introduce you two to one another.
They walked hand in hand towards Angie’s mother’s house for six blocks. As they approached the house, Angie stopped, squeezed Neal’s hand, and said, “See?”
“Yes,” Neal said. “A pair of pink flamingos. That is bizarre.”
Written for today’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt from Susan. Photo credit: Susan Spaulding.