Roseanne
As the sun rises on the seventh day and a full week has passed us by, we are no closer to freedom. We are no closer to finding a way out of this barbarous basement and going home.
Home.
Sometimes I forget what it looks like.
I try to picture my lavender bedroom walls, bay window, and the vintage mirror that my grandmother passed down to me. It's a quaint little house with only twelve-hundred square feet and two bedrooms, but it's mine. I worked my ass off for it and laid my roots.
I was in the middle of researching local animal shelters to adopt a dog-it has been on my bucket list for a solid year now, but it never felt like the right time. Last Saturday was spent scrolling through furry faces and cute canine bios as I narrowed down my search to find the perfect companion. I found two contenders, though, all of them called to me with their sad eyes and heartwarming stories.
But Jasmine and Buffy were the two I was going to meet on Sunday. I printed out their photos and secured them to my refrigerator, excited for this big life change.
I got change, all right. Just not the change I ever expected.
And part of me is grateful I don't have a pet at home waiting for me, wondering where I've gone, relying on me for things I cannot give.
I am the pet now.
Lisa's head is back against her pole, but her eyes are on me as I daydream about the two dogs I never got to meet. "Penny for your thoughts?"
I cut her a glance, pulling my legs up until I'm sitting Indian-style across from her. "You don't have any pennies. Unfair trade."
She blinks as her mouth quirks into a tiny smile. "Name your price, then."
"You have nothing to give. My thoughts are extremely valuable, you know."
"I'm sure they are." Lisa's eyes are as alight as they can be given the week we've battled through. She dips her head to the side, pursing her lips together and considering the bargain. "All right, Roseanne. A thought for a thought."
I raise the stakes. "How about a confession for a confession?"
An eyebrow arches with interest, her smile blooming. "This could be fun," she winks at me. "And dangerous."
"Dangerous?" I chew on the inside of my bottom lip, my belly doing a forgotten flippy-thing. "What kind of confessions did you have in mind? 'I stiffed the pizza delivery guy' or a full-on priest confessional with ten Hail Marys and the Act of Contrition?"
Lisa lets out a chuckle, shifting her weight until her knees are drawn up and shrugging her shoulders. "I would never stiff the pizza guy. Unforgivable." She ponders my question as she studies me, her head still cocked. "But definitely the second one. Let's go all Last Rites on each other."
I stare back at her, wracking my brain for something that is even remotely Last Rites worthy. To be honest, I'm not all that interesting. I pay my taxes, I drive the speed limit, I don't owe anybody any money. I've never cheated or stolen. And I always put the toilet paper roll in the 'over' position. "Fine. But I'm kind of boring, so you'll have to go first. Maybe you'll inspire something sordid and obscene buried deep in my subconscious."
"Okay." Lisa's expression turns more serious, the corners of her eyes creasing as she contemplates her confession.
Her wolfcut hairstyle has grown longer over the past week giving her a rougher appearance. Rachel didn't like the look when she'd occasionally get edgy haircuts like this one. She said it made Lisa look like a gang member. I never paid much attention at the time, but now that her face is the only thing I have to look at, I have to say I disagree with my sister. It looks great. Rugged.
