England had the Iron Lady. Omaha has the Steel Matron.
She sat, ramrod straight, in the greasy spoon her near-do-well son wanted to meet in. Her conservative suit, short cropped hair, and cold eyes all the same colour, the only adornment being a small jewelled clasp. Her presence drained the colour of everything around her. He was devouring hot soup.
*Slurp*
Her mask broke slightly, revealing unabashed disgust. Recovering quickly, her stone face mask was replaced. He looked up.
“I need money.”
“Of course you do. I don’t want to be entangled in your problems.”
“Typical. Ok. Bye.”
