One mom talks about her divorce and her ex’s divorces. Messy and messier still.
Another hands out homemade cookies and talks about the planned community they wish to move to. It’s its own city. Within a city. I wonder if she’ll start selling drugs.
The one that always comes late sits in the corner laughing forcefully talking about beer and remote controls and I can tell that the energy behind her laughter isn’t joy but I can’t quite find its source.
The woman next to me makes and receives text after text and pushes back her perfectly maintained thick black locks while reading about martial arts and running outside to take calls in a hushed whisper.
Alone surrounded by empty chairs sits the woman on her phone. Her younger son on her lap as she wrangles playground parents from her older child’s school.
And the grandmother who can sew anything. Like… anything… It conjures images of a seamstress in horror movies and things that have been sewn together when they, in fact, should not have.
Snippets of the dark side of their personalities come through and I can picture freeze frames of them at home. In the car. Digging a hole in the middle of the night. Smiling as they dress down a community of incompetents.
And I wonder for a moment about their real stories. The ones I don’t know and never will. That no one will. Unless, of course, they get caught.