Not Andersen Prunty

I wake up one morning and go downstairs only to realize my mother has been involved in a lengthy and entangled affair with Marcello Mastroianni, the deceased Italian actor. I realize this because he is sitting at the kitchen table in a cozy terry cloth robe, nursing a cup of coffee and smoking an unfiltered cigarette. When I finally bring myself to look into his puffy eyes, he merely raises his eyebrows as if to say, “Well, sometimes these things happen.” Mother comes out of the bedroom and he gives her a playful pat on the ass.