Being Shot

P h o t o #34 - Soup And Crackers

P h o t o #34 - Soup And Crackers

An ample sneeze echoed through my kitchen, making me turn back to face the still slightly shivering boy sitting at the small foldable table that sat across from the stove I stood at.

"Why don't I make you both some soup?" My grandmother's sweet voice asked right before she left the room, set on finding Elliot some dryer clothes to wear after I had already changed into mine.

"I got it." I gave her a smile, telling her that I was happy enough with the fact that she was willing to let our sopping wet selves into the house in the first place nor hysterically asked what had happened, even more so that she didn't completely go haywire when I told her about our Cadillac's drenched front seats after a chilly, silent ride home.

I rubbed the goosebumps under my faded navy sweatshirt, my skin still clammy from the wetness before. Even with my thick gray pajama pants with an Old Navy emblem stitched down the left thigh, heavy sweatshirt, and my still damp hair - damp for a different reason; that being that Elliot and I had both taken quick showers in hopes of warming ourselves prior - resting in a loose knot atop my head, my body could still feel the cold as if it had been engraved into my very bones. My toes curled inside a pair of light blue fuzzy socks that were cutely decorated with little baby ducklings.

"...You're still cold?" A whisper came from behind me as I sifted through our pantry and fought back chills all at once. I had forgotten that Elliot had probably just been awkwardly sitting in a place he was totally unaccustomed to: my incredibly, and a bit but embarrassingly, cluttered kitchen.

You never really realize how completely idle your house looks until you have guests. Papers and coupons disorderly pinned to the flower-themed pin board we had hung up - crooked from all of my grandmother's unused coupons she still hung onto - on the wall, miscellaneous pictures hogging up every inch of the fridge, every single cupboard almost bulging with mismatched cups and plates, pots and pans stacked overflowing next to our gas stove, and the many nature-loving, homely accents my grandmother insisted on adding to the mess.

I turned to fully face him. His features were a bit red from the hot shower he had taken, his clothes halfway dry from the quick dry we had given them with my grandmother's blow dryer - unfortunately, she didn't believe in mechanical dryers and often just hung up our clothes in the little patio/sun room we had in the very back, so we were stuck with the makeshift drying system - yet were still regrettably wet. I guess that's what made my grandmother give in and decide to fish for some clothes that would actually fit him. Who's clothes they would be, I was almost afraid to find out.

The thought of Elliot squeezing into one of the many floral print shirts my grandmother owned was almost too scary.

I shooed the thought away as my eyes landed on his hair, still a sopping mess as it sat in still ever-wavy lumps. I shook my head and let out a small giggle at the sight, his question completely forgotten as I slipped past him and across the hall to the mini half bathroom we had tucked in a corner on the main level, pulling a cream towel out of the small closet built into the wall.

I made my way back to the kitchen, wasting no time plopping the towel on his dark brown locks, beginning to lightly move it around for maximum water absorbance.

It wasn't until I pushed back his bangs in attempt to straighten them out that I  came face to face with slightly sheepish eyes locked on me, ultimately making me recoil back, apologizing as I left the toweling off to him.

I turned my back towards him once again, my conquest for soup back on track. Though the heat in my cheeks was quite distracting as I searched for my beloved Campbell's tomato soup.