Mr. Brandolini's Assignment

iii. significant groceries

Dedicated to moira_ because YOUR SUPPORT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME THANK U <3

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iii. significant groceries

I woke up in Jürgen’s bed the next day, spooning his tie-dye pillow (bought when we were both in aggressive hippie phases, vegetarianism et al). He was nowhere to be found; the room was cold and quiet and judging from the tonal quality of the birdsong outside, it was well past ten in the morning. I took a minute to orient myself, standing up and walking about in circles. Then I made my way to his bathroom, where I used his toothbrush and had a shower with his coconut body scrub, after which I borrowed a pair of his boxers and put on the day before’s clothes. I was in trouble; I was getting that feeling in my bones. It was a Saturday, so both my parents would be home (I assumed). I didn’t even bother checking my phone as I left his house.

 The keerai vendor said hello to me as I walked past him (my father loves spinach soup). I asked him if my mother was home and he said she was. I said fuck loudly enough for a housewife feeding her kid breakfast in their lawn to give me a nasty look.

 At home, I checked my reflection again in the hallway mirror, the one with the fake tribal embroidered frame. We’re not even remotely connected to any sort of tribe but apparently it was an anniversary present from my uncle or something so my mum refuses to chuck it out. First of all, who the fuck gives a mirror to a couple as an anniversary present? It’s a bloody mirror?

 ‘This house reeks of cultural appropriation,’ I said under my breath as I went in.

 My parents were in the kitchen. They barely even noticed when I walked in and put my bag on the cane sofa and went to the fridge to get a drink of water. All Jürgen had at home was bread and cheese and a bottle of cheap Sula. Okay maybe not just that, but I had to get out of there quickly and I feel like all anyone in that household eats is grilled cheese.

 My dad was telling my mother about some TED talk he heard on the radio. He listens to it on the way to work because the commute is like an hour from here and no, we don’t have NPR in India (I fucking wish) but Chennai Live bought the rights and got an RJ with an American accent to do the ads so it sounds authentic.

 I’ll have you know that my parents are about as bourgeois as you can get, in the bad, Metroland kind of way, and I view them with as much Barnes-esque cynicism I can gather without it getting exhausting because they are, after all, my parents, my progenitors, the suppliers of the sperm and egg from which I unwillingly sprang forth into this godforsaken place. My father is a financial consultant and my mother is a financial journalist, which means we have tons of money but no life. Like, have you ever met a person in finance who’s passionate about finance? I mean, a crazy chartered accountant who lives and breathes accountancy? No way man. ‘Finance journalist’, aka ‘I tried to be a writer and that didn’t work so I tried to be a regular journalist and that didn’t work either so here I am writing articles about kids’ debit cards for periodicals that no one reads.’ Yay! I love my job!

 ‘Sit, Leena, sit. Listen to this,’ my father said.

 ‘Yes, father.’

 Papa’s only redeeming point is his moustache. It’s brilliant and perfectly toothbrushy and it must be annoying as hell whilst kissing but hey that’s not my problem and by the looks of things it’s not my mother’s either.

 ‘So this guy was from Princeton or something,’ Papa went on. ‘And he was talking about how our experiences aren’t just stored as experiences, but rather as biased, completely subjective versions of our memories of those experiences. Like he went on holiday with his wife once and their last day was amazing, they had a great time and it was all cool and the day they had to check out, they had a few hours to kill before leaving. But they decided to just chill in the room because they knew that if something bad happened in those few hours it would ruin their memory of their vacation even though most of it was good.’