450 Champs du Mars: Natalie Blackwood's Apartment

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Myron Bolitar

The Bolitar name was a name, well in itself, what kind of name was that? The people in it were really the icing on the cooky, eccentric, and dare he throw out there, good looking, Bolitar cake. Myron Bolitar knew growing up that his family was different. It was like when little Billy-Bob-Benjamin whipped out his '100' crayons in that crayola crayon box with the really wicked sharpener in the back of the box- Myron missed those damn things- and opened it, and his eyes immediately went to that out of this world color that always stood out. That, ladies and gentlemen, was a crayon version of what a Bolitar was. Fact of the matter was, Myron couldn't be more proud to be a Bolitar and was never ashamed at the antics, but proud. Even as he stood in Natalie Blackwood's kitchen, remembering about his dad's raunchy apron, he felt like the proudest son ever. Because seriously, who got to say stuff like that?

"It's... different."

And by that, she meant freaking hilarious. At least, that's what Myron Bolitar felt as he grinned to himself thinking back on it.

His daze was broken when Natalie busted out laughing. The sound thrilled Myron, but also scared the hell out of him at the same time by the sudden loud sound. It was, random. Was she having a seizure?

“Sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I promise.”

She looked like she was cleaning herself up as she composed herself and began stirring. Myron Bolitar didn't like that whole- cleaning the image. If she laughed, she should laugh louder! He loved the sound of a good hearty laugh. Composure was just a human being's biggest lie. The outburst made him feel silly. Why did people apologize for laughter? It was a pet peeve of his.

"You should be so, so, so sorry." Myron Bolitar stated in a thick, firm, voice, leaning his head downward to catch more of her eyes. "There will be absolutely no fun in this kitchen, dammit!" He cried out dramatically, slamming a fist onto the counter top.

Spinning around, he snatched the plate Mickey Mouse sat on and held it out, "I mean, don't you see the seriousness of this project?"

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

The whisk clacked against the bowl. Inside, she could feel the cream stiffen up, resisting each stir. She’d taste-test in a minute. Right now, she tried to drown out the sound of her own laughter. It echoed in her ears, that laugh, and it bothered her. Natalie didn’t laugh at cheap jokes like “Kiss the C*ck.” She didn’t. She was a grown woman. One with a grown son. She had a standard to set, an example.

She didn’t lose composure. She didn’t laugh at bawdy humor. She didn’t have one night stands. She didn’t.

God, what am I like? she thought, keeping color from rising into her cheeks. She also didn’t get embarrassed. That one truism, she’d cling to, even if the rest had gone to hell in a hand-basket since last night.

"You should be so, so, so sorry," Myron said in stern voice. He popped into view. Natalie met his twinkling gaze. "There will be absolutely no fun in this kitchen, dammit!" He cried out dramatically, slamming a fist onto the counter top. Spinning around, he snatched the plate Mickey Mouse sat on and held it out, "I mean, don't you see the seriousness of this project?"

Natalie kept herself from laughing like a hyena, but a grin flicked onto her lips. This was a bit ridiculous, wasn’t it? Making Mickey Mouse pancakes with a man she scarcely knew, but had slept with?

“Of course,” she said, thwacking the whisk against the side of the bowl so that the finished whipped cream which still clung to the wire returned to the bowl. “Silly me, forgetting that there can be nothing more serious than Mickey Mouse pancakes. It won’t happen again.”

She wondered if the last sentence would prove true. She pulled out a cake decorating bag and fitted a plastic tip to it. Then, with a spatula, scooped whipped cream into the bag. Natalie looked up at Myron again.

“Ready to decorate?”