“Yeah, Donna.” John said, as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. “What is it you can’t accept, anyway?”
Logan tried not to panic. The stage was set for an astounding reenactment of a scene in an angst-filled French film. Donna was stuck in her role of Mother Hen/Matriarch, defending her favorite son from the strange new woman. John looked like he could go from pouting James Dean to a reasonable facsimile of young Marlon Brando at any second.
Etty? She looked beautiful, sad, and pitiful.
Being a circumspect individual, Logan was content to keep his ass out of the fray. If his beret had been handy, he would have slapped it on top of his head to work the part of “Innocent French Bystander #1”. It was better to be a bystander than an active participant in a Donna-John argument.
“John, I hate to say this, but you don’t know her. She’s not even… one of us.” Donna answered. “Plus, you’ve known her a total of… how long? Hours? Minutes?”
“You say ‘one of us’ like your grandfather would have said ‘black’ about 30 years ago. I didn’t expect you to descend to racism.”
“Oh, fuck you, John! She’s a fairy! That qualifies as ‘not one of us’. Jesus!”
John strode into the room with a purpose. He wrapped his arms around Etty from behind, and pulled her to his chest. She turned into his embrace and laid her head against his arm. Their body language was clear—the way a burning sword in the hand of an angel carried a certain message—they were in love, for better or for worse.
“As for your argument about not having known her for very long,” John snorted, “I’m not even going to touch you and your new fuck-buddy.”
“Low blow, John. I don’t need your protection or your approval.”