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Washington D.C- October 27, 2009- Tuesday
Bette woke up to Tina’s head resting peacefully on her chest and an arm wrapped tightly around her. Smiling down, she let her left hand gently twirl a piece of blonde hair around her finger. Watching the strands cascade over Tina’s face, she placed a soft kiss on her forehead.
Hearing a slight knock on the bedroom door, she looks over to see her daughter’s head peeking through the small gap. “Mommy?”
With a soft whisper, Bette nods the young girl in. “Hey, baby.”
“I’m getting hungry,” Angie whispered, looking down at her blonde mom. “Mama still sleeping?”
Looking down herself, Bette twirls yet another blonde piece of hair around her finger, “she had a long couple of days, sweetie. Come on, lets see if Mama T has any take-out menus laying around.”
With a little smile, Angie nods and leans over to kiss Tina’s cheek. Turning around, she quietly walks out of the bedroom.
Untangling herself from Tina, Bette follows her daughter out to the kitchen. “Alright, where do you think Mama hid her menus at?”
“The drawer!” Angie answers pointing to the numerous drawers throughout the kitchen.
“Nice one,” Bette winks and begins to open up some of the drawers in search of some sort of menu.
In the master bedroom, Tina wakes up to the sound of her phone going off. Noticing the bed is empty beside her and hearing soft voices coming from the kitchen, she smiles softly as she rolls over and answers.
“Hey, you.” Delia responded with a smirk. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything…”
Rolling her eyes, she laid flat down on her back. “Nope, just a peaceful…” Tina looks over at the clock on the table next to her, “3 hours of sleep.”
“Yeah…sorry about that. I just wanted to let you know that I’m at the office and Greyson said that you left a file. You want me to drop it off or?”
“Why are you at the office?” Tina interrupted in a sharp tone. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
Rolling her eyes on the other end, “I’ll have you know, I had my first therapy appointment.”
“Cordelia at a therapy meeting…That’s something that is hard to believe.”
“Look,” Delia muttered into the phone. “You know damn well I’d rather chop off my own foot than talk to some stranger who pretends to care about my problems and my psychological well-being after being shot by some fucking asshole who-…”