Red Mango

thirteen

11:23 AM

The dreaded morning after. As if a thunder cloud permanently lingers above Cody's head like a pestering fly. Last night took a turn for the worse when the petty game inquiries of the younger barbecue attendees were exchanged for hard-hitting interrogations. To wallow the bitterly truthful context, Cody accepted a Martini bottle as her dearest companion. She recalls vague divulgences of paltry secrets and the trade of laughter. But other than the minor moment of self-humiliation, Cody had enjoyed herself.

That can't be said for the uncomfortable, peculiarly sticky position on the Watson's forgotten leather couch in the desolate basement. Cody hefts her fatigued body from its reclined position with great reluctance. She can't seem to reminisce the decision of claiming a disposed leather sofa instead of a vacant guest bedroom. The alcohol must have clouded her judgement. With heavy steps, Cody treks up to the main floor, hoping to find alternate signs of human life. As she meanders into the kitchen, resembling a lifeless phantom, she notices the stirring sound of the coffee machine. Knowing that Sam is the Grinch of all mornings, Cody presumes Kit has taken it upon himself to take responsibility. Her suspicions are confirmed when a masculine figure returns to the kitchen with a cereal box in hand. He, as well as Cody, appears to remain in a somnolent daze. Kit takes a second to acknowledge the presence of another person and he manages a lazy smile.

"Good morning," his voice is unsurprisingly hoarse and the smell of fire is still indisputable among the two people. With a pair of low-hanging, grey sweatpants, Kit is the ideal distraction for Cody's aching headache. She shamelessly rakes her eyes down Kit's figure, sighing in petty admiration.

"How did you sleep?" Kit fumbles with the coffee machine and silently questions Cody's request, who nods politely. She momentarily zones out; distracted by the context in the kitchen as she yearns for a pair of dark-shaded sunglasses to escape from her prodding headache.

"I ended up on that leather couch in the basement- which is a perfectly fine couch other than the strange smell," Cody sighs, recalling the bizarre earthy odour emitting from the couch. She wondered why the adequate piece of furniture was hidden in the desolate cellar from any human attention.

"We found a dead raccoon in between the cushions last summer," Kit says nonchalantly, yet the amusement in his eyes is inevitable. Cody, on the contrary, grimaces in horror.

"I slept on the grave of a dead raccoon?" she groans and lies her head on the marble counter in un-adulterated discomfort. It does, however, clarify the rationalisation of that peculiar odour.

"I'm kidding, Cody- my mom thought it was tacky so she moved it to the basement". Cody sighs in exhaustive relief, chuckling lightly upon Kit's fabricated narrative. It was awfully yet terrifyingly credible.

"I think I should head home before your mother confuses me as her own daughter," Cody slips off the bar stool, alluding to the large majority of time she devotes to the Watson household. As if on queue, the kitchen's home phone rings, Kit seizes the device and places it at his ear, briefly glancing in Cody's direction. She presses her lips into a thin line, bemused by the thoughts meandering through her mind.

"It's for you". Cody accepts the phone from Kit's extended hand and catches the mouthing of 'Blair's' name through his lips. She hadn't perceived any details regarding the success of the wedding venture the previous afternoon. Aaron, however, sent Cody a succinct message concerning Bridezilla's unrelenting emotional breakdowns. It concludes in the familiar abbreviation of SOS.

"Good morning Blair-zilla".

"Don't make me laugh- a cucumber just fell off my face. I'm getting a facial at Olive Green Spa, out of town. Aaron and I won't be home until tonight. I left last night's pizza in the fridge- take care of yourself," Blair expresses in a muffled tone; presumably diverted by the unwinding context at the spa.