Can I Speak?

K: Mother, I know very little of consensual sex.
M: Get yours before he gets...
K: No, no. I mean of the rules. The kissing. Do I request equal time? Can I speak to him?
M: Yes, woman. Yes! You are 40 and you...
K: I'm sorry, mother.
M: No, baby, don't be sorry. Those stories you wrote for Hustler?
K: I just made them up. Pretended. Read books. Those don't have to be all that sweet.
M: You and those books. Always the books, since 3. That's a shame.
K: No one has leaned in and kissed. It always stops and begins at their satisfaction. To feel a hand glide kindly across my skin! For someone to touch with love! The books are your fault. Remember the poetry while I was wearing a cowboy hat every night before bed until I was 8? Oh, I'm reading the Art of War.
M: I don't want to think about the poetry. Or Red Headed Stranger. Waylon, Willie, or the boys. You don't need men. They're pieces of shit.
K: Every one? And I didn't say anything about Red Headed Stranger.
M: Think about what you've had. Look at me. What you're reading, even! Cowboy hat. Red Headed Stranger. Whatever.
K: But that's not everyone. Is love-making a Disney fantasy? I haven't seen that in Cinderella.
M: Lawd, girl. Lawd. You crazy.

K&M: It was the time of the preacher. In the year of 01. Now the lesson is over and the killing's begun...

K: Night, mother.
M: Night, Kikah.

K: I loved the poem about the looming bear.
M: I don't remember.
K: I know. I don't really either except we analyzed it together about the Cold War. I should find that.
M: Just close your eyes, baby, and when you open them again it will be day. You find your poem tomorrow.
K: (blinks) It's day!
M: Kikah...