2
Nacho Fun Time
The evening’s saving grace: upon opening the apartment door, it smells a little like food. Keith made dinner. I am so grateful.
“Hey,” I say, dumping my backpack on the floor. His black jump kit takes up the entire space on the ornately carved foyer bench. The bench I bought to someday grace the grand foyer of my amazing house that I will somehow manage to buy on my pathetic salary. Which is why it’s still sitting against the wall in my shitty two-bedroom, rent-controlled apartment.
Why we need a jump kit inside the apartment at all times—“You never know when the Big One might hit, Hol, and people will need my help”—ergo, a 40 lb. bag of gloves, surgical tubing, IV bags, gauze, tape, water purifying salts, and silver emergency blankets sits in my hallway and takes up all the space on my pretty bench.
I sort of hope an earthquake does hit. And when it does, I hope it opens a chasm below this apartment and swallows the jump kit whole. I’ll miss my bench, though.
The Yorkies go apeshit. I live here. This is my abode. And every single night, these stupid little ass-licking, ankle-biting shit machines bark like I’m the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Assholes. I hate Yorkies. And by hate, I mean I want to drown them. Or magically turn them into clouds so they will float away on a breeze of my own making.
“Your dad called,” Keith says from the kitchen. “Again.”
“Mmm-hmm. What’s for dinner?”
“Wait! Don’t come in here.”
“What?” I freeze. The Yorkies are yipping at me. I make my meanest face at them. They bark louder. Why can’t we have a cat? Cats are so much cuter than Yorkies. Plus cats look like otters. Otters are the bestest creatures in the whole wild world. Thus, because it is not legal or practical for me to have an otter, we should have a cat. To balance out all the doggish hormones and slobber and ball-licking.
Keith leans around the corner, baggy flannel pants doing nothing for his ass, stethoscope around his neck as per usual. Why he does this, I don’t know. I have zero fantasies about humping a doctor. Or an EMT. Because Keith is not a doctor. He’s the guy who drives the ambulance and jams the IV in your arm until he can take you to the hospital where a real doctor will help you. “I have a surprise for you. Go in the bedroom. Get comfy.”
“Oooookay …”
“And by comfy, I mean naked.”
He leans close for a kiss but I push him away. He smells like dogs. And Cheetos. Have I mentioned how much I hate Cheetos? Well, I am telling you now: I fucking hate Cheetos. On a dare, I ate an entire bag at Charlotte Smith’s ninth birthday slumber party because I wanted the little ceramic rainbow pin she was offering the winner, and I puked orange for four straight hours.
For the record, I won the pin. I still have it. But I don’t eat Cheetos anymore.
God, I am a crabby cow tonight. I might need a chocolaty intervention to balance out the meanness.
He wants me naked. Now? “I need a shower. And you need to brush your teeth. You smell like Cheetos,” I say.
Keith honks my boob. “Fine, fine. But hurry. You’re gonna love this.”
I squint at him. Do I hear adventure coming from that boy’s mouth? Is this real life? “What’s going on?” I ask cautiously. I’m tired of Naughty Nurse. And Doctor and Nurse. And Doctor and Patient. And I Saved You From a Burning Building So You Should Have Sex With Me Even Though You’re Unconscious and Could Be Dying from Smoke Inhalation. Shall I continue? All the games either end with me mummified in gauze and anchored to the bed, or with me pushing his stethoscope out of my face while he’s pumping away. The romance is overwhelming. I know. Here’s a cloth to wipe your fevered brow.
