laughed out loud. If I had any doubt that Howard knew what to do to get me back where I wanted to be, his status report obliterated it. “You’re my hero.”
Howard laughed, too. “Of course I am, but I’m doing this for purely selfish reasons. I’m already dying of loneliness. Without you, everything is a bore.”
“You’re never bored!”
“I know that, but if I was, now would be the time,” he said.
“I miss you, too,” I said. “Call me after the board meeting and let me know how it went?”
“I’ve already got you on speed dial,” he said. “Gotta run. Kiss my baby for me! Love you madly!”
“Love you more!”
Which was probably not true. When it comes to unconditional love, me and Howard are tied for first place.
TWELVE
W hen Zora got home at ten thirty, I was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on what I knew was one of her favorite meals: roast chicken with lemon and tarragon butter, green beans with almonds, and new potatoes. I had also picked up a loaf of crusty French bread, and for dessert, baked apples with whipped cream. The landlord’s kitchen was well organized, well equipped, and a pleasure to work in, even for an amateur like me. I’ve always loved to cook for my friends, and Zora and I had spent a lot of time together in the kitchen. Judging from her dramatic weight loss, she hadn’t spent many hours there lately.
I had found a multidisc CD player in the front room and programmed it for random selections, curious about what might come up for my listening pleasure. Exploring somebody’s music is as revealing as poking through their closet, and usually a lot more fun. By the time Zora arrived, I had heard everybody from Louis Armstrong to Buckwheat Zydeco and enjoyed them all. I was basting the chicken, singing along loudly to Bob Marley’s “Exodus,” and wishing I had the patience to grow dreadlocks when she walked in. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and headed straight for the freezer.
“Hey, darlin’,” I said, closing the oven door and figuring another thirty-five minutes should do it. “Welcome home. You hungry?”
“I didn’t know you were cooking,” she said, pouring herself a drink. “I grabbed a sandwich a couple of hours ago.”
“No problem,” I said, willing to bet she hadn’t eaten anything, although I could smell the vodka already on her breath when she kissed me. “You can sit with me while you have your drink.”
“I don’t think I’d be very good company,” she said, tossing a copy of
Dig It!
on the kitchen counter in front of me. It was today’s issue and there she was on the cover, standing in Paschal’s draped in my luggage, looking stressed out and skinny, next to a picture of herself looking like she used to, happy, healthy, and effortlessly beautiful.
Scandal takes its toll!
The headline blared.
Dig It! exclusive. What a difference a year makes!
“What is this?” I said, confused.
“There’s more,” she said. “Page six.”
I flipped to it and there we both were, sitting in Paschal’s, talking intensely. The pictures weren’t great, but they were accurate. Zora looked terrible and I looked concerned. Movie people always say that the camera doesn’t lie, and in this case they were right.
At the bottom was a reproduction of the cover photos with comments about the change in her appearance, complete with arrows pointing out the contrast.
Breasts: Last year, full and firm. This year, shrunken and sunken. Booty: Last year, best in show. This year, where’d it go?
I was outraged at the invasion of her privacy and mystified as to the possible photographer. “Where did they get these?”
“Probably the waiter.”
“MacArthur?” I couldn’t believe it. “Why would he?”
“Because they pay good money for this crap.” She practically spit out the words.
“He didn’t seem like that kind of guy,” I said.
Hair,
said the copy next to an arrow pointing at Zora’s severe little ponytail.
Last
Howard laughed, too. “Of course I am, but I’m doing this for purely selfish reasons. I’m already dying of loneliness. Without you, everything is a bore.”
“You’re never bored!”
“I know that, but if I was, now would be the time,” he said.
“I miss you, too,” I said. “Call me after the board meeting and let me know how it went?”
“I’ve already got you on speed dial,” he said. “Gotta run. Kiss my baby for me! Love you madly!”
“Love you more!”
Which was probably not true. When it comes to unconditional love, me and Howard are tied for first place.
TWELVE
W hen Zora got home at ten thirty, I was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on what I knew was one of her favorite meals: roast chicken with lemon and tarragon butter, green beans with almonds, and new potatoes. I had also picked up a loaf of crusty French bread, and for dessert, baked apples with whipped cream. The landlord’s kitchen was well organized, well equipped, and a pleasure to work in, even for an amateur like me. I’ve always loved to cook for my friends, and Zora and I had spent a lot of time together in the kitchen. Judging from her dramatic weight loss, she hadn’t spent many hours there lately.
I had found a multidisc CD player in the front room and programmed it for random selections, curious about what might come up for my listening pleasure. Exploring somebody’s music is as revealing as poking through their closet, and usually a lot more fun. By the time Zora arrived, I had heard everybody from Louis Armstrong to Buckwheat Zydeco and enjoyed them all. I was basting the chicken, singing along loudly to Bob Marley’s “Exodus,” and wishing I had the patience to grow dreadlocks when she walked in. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and headed straight for the freezer.
“Hey, darlin’,” I said, closing the oven door and figuring another thirty-five minutes should do it. “Welcome home. You hungry?”
“I didn’t know you were cooking,” she said, pouring herself a drink. “I grabbed a sandwich a couple of hours ago.”
“No problem,” I said, willing to bet she hadn’t eaten anything, although I could smell the vodka already on her breath when she kissed me. “You can sit with me while you have your drink.”
“I don’t think I’d be very good company,” she said, tossing a copy of
Dig It!
on the kitchen counter in front of me. It was today’s issue and there she was on the cover, standing in Paschal’s draped in my luggage, looking stressed out and skinny, next to a picture of herself looking like she used to, happy, healthy, and effortlessly beautiful.
Scandal takes its toll!
The headline blared.
Dig It! exclusive. What a difference a year makes!
“What is this?” I said, confused.
“There’s more,” she said. “Page six.”
I flipped to it and there we both were, sitting in Paschal’s, talking intensely. The pictures weren’t great, but they were accurate. Zora looked terrible and I looked concerned. Movie people always say that the camera doesn’t lie, and in this case they were right.
At the bottom was a reproduction of the cover photos with comments about the change in her appearance, complete with arrows pointing out the contrast.
Breasts: Last year, full and firm. This year, shrunken and sunken. Booty: Last year, best in show. This year, where’d it go?
I was outraged at the invasion of her privacy and mystified as to the possible photographer. “Where did they get these?”
“Probably the waiter.”
“MacArthur?” I couldn’t believe it. “Why would he?”
“Because they pay good money for this crap.” She practically spit out the words.
“He didn’t seem like that kind of guy,” I said.
Hair,
said the copy next to an arrow pointing at Zora’s severe little ponytail.
Last
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