wax paper.
“This monstrous, bigoted, government and military hating—”
“I’m a Republican,” she says flatly, and I balk.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously what?” she says, looking back at me. “I’m a business owner.”
“So?”
“ So I’m an advocate for lower taxes and disbanding unions, and there’s nothing I abhor more than the blatant lack of a federal budget and their joke of any sort of fiscal responsibility because I’m paying for their dipshit-ness.”
I gape at her because taxes I get, but certain civil liberties and Republicans don’t mix. And she must know what I’m thinking because she arches an eyebrow at me.
“Do I think the government has a right to watch me on street corners and read my emails? Absolutely not. However, do I think anyone has the right to tell me what is morally correct to do with my body? No . So call me a Libertarian Republican if you want, but the only thing that ticks me off more than public instead of private welfare is the fact that I didn’t get to vote for Ronald Reagan because I was too young.”
I burst out laughing, then jerk my chin at her. “You would’ve voted for Ron Paul in the last election, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s none of your business,” she says, then turns towards the steak. “But damn right I would’ve.”
“Imagine that’s the PATRIOT Act,” I say and gesture to the skirt steak, and she begins to repeatedly nail the shit out of it with the meat tenderizer. I laugh harder and then take the make-shift hammer away from her. “Luca, I wasn’t done! That thing needs to be destroyed,” she growls.
“Yeah, but you’re destroying our dinner.” I toss the tool into the sink behind me, then unwrap the steak and grab a knife, cutting it in half. She waits patiently, leaning back a little more against me and I can’t help but to smile.
When I’m done I carefully lob the knife into the sink, then slide over the bowls I’ll need, along with the carton of eggs, a bag of flour and a few different seasonings, then turn the heat on the burner back up so the oil will be nice and hot by the time we’re ready to drop the steaks in.
“Are we making chicken fried steak?” she asks, and I shrug.
“Yeah. Beef okay?” I ask warily, because food has been such an issue, and she nods.
“But what’s with the country-bumpkin food? You a palm reading cowboy?”
I roll my eyes, then crack two eggs and start beating them with my favorite whisk. “You wanted BBQ earlier today and that got me thinking about this place in Austin that has the best ribs in the world, and then I started thinking about chicken fried steak because if you live in Texas for anything longer than five minutes, you quickly realize there is no better comfort food after a long day than chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes.”
“You lived in Texas?” she asks, and I nod.
“Yeah, did ten weeks of training at Lackland in San Antonio.”
“Ten weeks? Was that like, basic training?”
“Yeah, but… after regular basic.” I clear my throat, then step away to the sink and rinse off the whisk and rewash my hands, then go back to stand beside Zoe and scoop out a couple cups of flour into the second bowl.
I debate not saying anything else because I’m not sure how much she really cares, and it’s not like I’m ashamed or anything, but questions about my military career segue right into why it’s no longer my career, and I don’t feel like talking about it. Especially not with Zoe, not tonight when we’re establishing a friendship baseline. We don’t need the added drama. Plus, I don’t want her to look at me different because sometimes, people do.
I look over at her, curiosity plain in her features and patient silence, and screw it. I can tell her a little without really getting into it.
“Lackland was just the indoc,” I tell her. “After that it was Georgia, a couple different places in Florida, Washington, Fort Bragg, and then almost a year at
“This monstrous, bigoted, government and military hating—”
“I’m a Republican,” she says flatly, and I balk.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously what?” she says, looking back at me. “I’m a business owner.”
“So?”
“ So I’m an advocate for lower taxes and disbanding unions, and there’s nothing I abhor more than the blatant lack of a federal budget and their joke of any sort of fiscal responsibility because I’m paying for their dipshit-ness.”
I gape at her because taxes I get, but certain civil liberties and Republicans don’t mix. And she must know what I’m thinking because she arches an eyebrow at me.
“Do I think the government has a right to watch me on street corners and read my emails? Absolutely not. However, do I think anyone has the right to tell me what is morally correct to do with my body? No . So call me a Libertarian Republican if you want, but the only thing that ticks me off more than public instead of private welfare is the fact that I didn’t get to vote for Ronald Reagan because I was too young.”
I burst out laughing, then jerk my chin at her. “You would’ve voted for Ron Paul in the last election, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s none of your business,” she says, then turns towards the steak. “But damn right I would’ve.”
“Imagine that’s the PATRIOT Act,” I say and gesture to the skirt steak, and she begins to repeatedly nail the shit out of it with the meat tenderizer. I laugh harder and then take the make-shift hammer away from her. “Luca, I wasn’t done! That thing needs to be destroyed,” she growls.
“Yeah, but you’re destroying our dinner.” I toss the tool into the sink behind me, then unwrap the steak and grab a knife, cutting it in half. She waits patiently, leaning back a little more against me and I can’t help but to smile.
When I’m done I carefully lob the knife into the sink, then slide over the bowls I’ll need, along with the carton of eggs, a bag of flour and a few different seasonings, then turn the heat on the burner back up so the oil will be nice and hot by the time we’re ready to drop the steaks in.
“Are we making chicken fried steak?” she asks, and I shrug.
“Yeah. Beef okay?” I ask warily, because food has been such an issue, and she nods.
“But what’s with the country-bumpkin food? You a palm reading cowboy?”
I roll my eyes, then crack two eggs and start beating them with my favorite whisk. “You wanted BBQ earlier today and that got me thinking about this place in Austin that has the best ribs in the world, and then I started thinking about chicken fried steak because if you live in Texas for anything longer than five minutes, you quickly realize there is no better comfort food after a long day than chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes.”
“You lived in Texas?” she asks, and I nod.
“Yeah, did ten weeks of training at Lackland in San Antonio.”
“Ten weeks? Was that like, basic training?”
“Yeah, but… after regular basic.” I clear my throat, then step away to the sink and rinse off the whisk and rewash my hands, then go back to stand beside Zoe and scoop out a couple cups of flour into the second bowl.
I debate not saying anything else because I’m not sure how much she really cares, and it’s not like I’m ashamed or anything, but questions about my military career segue right into why it’s no longer my career, and I don’t feel like talking about it. Especially not with Zoe, not tonight when we’re establishing a friendship baseline. We don’t need the added drama. Plus, I don’t want her to look at me different because sometimes, people do.
I look over at her, curiosity plain in her features and patient silence, and screw it. I can tell her a little without really getting into it.
“Lackland was just the indoc,” I tell her. “After that it was Georgia, a couple different places in Florida, Washington, Fort Bragg, and then almost a year at
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