me.
My arms had become a little numb from the pizza boxes while the wine bottle’s neck had grown slick with the sweat from my palm.
“It’s no problem. I’ve got it.” I tried to duck around him and avoid his eyes, but he cut me off and shook his head before plucking the pizzas out of my hand and tipping his head toward the bottle of wine I was clutching. Once I handed it over, he gave me a reassuring smile and swiftly turned the corner toward the kitchen before returning empty-handed several seconds later.
“Sherry, we agreed,” I said sternly as I came to a stop a few feet in front of her.
“I know, I know. But he didn’t believe me.” Sherry pointed an accusing finger at Gabe.
“Well, I hope now that you’ve seen the spectacle, you will never put us through this again,” I said to Gabe.
“I didn’t know anyone could sound that bad and still think they sound good,” Gabe said softly, almost like he was talking to himself.
Sherry snorted. “Please, she could make our ears bleed while watching dogs cringe while breaking glass and still think she deserves a Grammy.”
“Hey, assholes!” Naomi shouted. “I can still hear you assholes, and I’m excellent. You assholes just don’t understand.” She frowned and turned her pitiful, drunk gaze on me. “Right, Alara?”
Without missing a beat, I turned and gave her a huge smile. “Of course, sweetie.”
Momentarily placated, Naomi lay back down with a smile on her face as she sang a few verses of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off.” I turned around to find Sherry mock glaring at me.
“That”—she paused as she pointed her finger at our very inebriated friend—“is not helping. And for the record, I don’t feel guilty at all.”
I rolled my eyes. “You never feel guilty for anything,” I hollered as I headed into the kitchen.
Stepping inside our kitchen was always like being transported back to the 1950s. Naomi begged me to let her decorate, and after going through many options, I agreed to her I Love Lucy inspired design. We had the requisite turquoise 1950s-style range and fridge, as well as vintage utensils, and striped papered walls. I felt the immediate need to throw on an apron and some pearls and get dinner ready in time for my “hard-working” husband to come home.
Despite the depressing image of being stuck in a kitchen all day, it was still my favorite room in our apartment. It represented a time when women were repressed while paradoxically representing Naomi’s refusal to conform. It exemplified her refusal to have a “normal” anything, even in the face of people’s very vocal qualms. Mainly Derek’s and Caleb’s. This was probably the only thing they ever agreed on.
I crossed the room to the only modern part of our kitchen, the area we housed anything and everything related to coffee and wine. In the far corner, we had a Keurig single-cup coffeemaker and dozens of different K-cups littering the counter, a four-bottle wine and glass holder mounted on the wall, and an open-faced box housing all the accompanying accessories.
Okay, so this also might have been part of the reason why the kitchen was my favorite room. I liked my coffee and wine. Sue me.
I’d just grabbed a wineglass and the corkscrew when an already familiar voice sounded behind me.
“Lucy, I’m home.”
Laughing, I turned around to find Gabe picking up the wine I bought and walking it over to me. He handed me the bottle before leaning against the opposite counter.
“You know, I always think the same thing whenever I come in here.”
“Where the hell did you guys even get these things?” he asked, motioning toward the range and fridge.
“I have no clue. This was all Naomi’s doing.” And at a certain point, you stop asking questions, because they will always outnumber the answers.
He nodded and continued his perusal of the kitchen as an awkward silence descended over us. Gabe didn’t seem to notice or care, further highlighting my
My arms had become a little numb from the pizza boxes while the wine bottle’s neck had grown slick with the sweat from my palm.
“It’s no problem. I’ve got it.” I tried to duck around him and avoid his eyes, but he cut me off and shook his head before plucking the pizzas out of my hand and tipping his head toward the bottle of wine I was clutching. Once I handed it over, he gave me a reassuring smile and swiftly turned the corner toward the kitchen before returning empty-handed several seconds later.
“Sherry, we agreed,” I said sternly as I came to a stop a few feet in front of her.
“I know, I know. But he didn’t believe me.” Sherry pointed an accusing finger at Gabe.
“Well, I hope now that you’ve seen the spectacle, you will never put us through this again,” I said to Gabe.
“I didn’t know anyone could sound that bad and still think they sound good,” Gabe said softly, almost like he was talking to himself.
Sherry snorted. “Please, she could make our ears bleed while watching dogs cringe while breaking glass and still think she deserves a Grammy.”
“Hey, assholes!” Naomi shouted. “I can still hear you assholes, and I’m excellent. You assholes just don’t understand.” She frowned and turned her pitiful, drunk gaze on me. “Right, Alara?”
Without missing a beat, I turned and gave her a huge smile. “Of course, sweetie.”
Momentarily placated, Naomi lay back down with a smile on her face as she sang a few verses of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off.” I turned around to find Sherry mock glaring at me.
“That”—she paused as she pointed her finger at our very inebriated friend—“is not helping. And for the record, I don’t feel guilty at all.”
I rolled my eyes. “You never feel guilty for anything,” I hollered as I headed into the kitchen.
Stepping inside our kitchen was always like being transported back to the 1950s. Naomi begged me to let her decorate, and after going through many options, I agreed to her I Love Lucy inspired design. We had the requisite turquoise 1950s-style range and fridge, as well as vintage utensils, and striped papered walls. I felt the immediate need to throw on an apron and some pearls and get dinner ready in time for my “hard-working” husband to come home.
Despite the depressing image of being stuck in a kitchen all day, it was still my favorite room in our apartment. It represented a time when women were repressed while paradoxically representing Naomi’s refusal to conform. It exemplified her refusal to have a “normal” anything, even in the face of people’s very vocal qualms. Mainly Derek’s and Caleb’s. This was probably the only thing they ever agreed on.
I crossed the room to the only modern part of our kitchen, the area we housed anything and everything related to coffee and wine. In the far corner, we had a Keurig single-cup coffeemaker and dozens of different K-cups littering the counter, a four-bottle wine and glass holder mounted on the wall, and an open-faced box housing all the accompanying accessories.
Okay, so this also might have been part of the reason why the kitchen was my favorite room. I liked my coffee and wine. Sue me.
I’d just grabbed a wineglass and the corkscrew when an already familiar voice sounded behind me.
“Lucy, I’m home.”
Laughing, I turned around to find Gabe picking up the wine I bought and walking it over to me. He handed me the bottle before leaning against the opposite counter.
“You know, I always think the same thing whenever I come in here.”
“Where the hell did you guys even get these things?” he asked, motioning toward the range and fridge.
“I have no clue. This was all Naomi’s doing.” And at a certain point, you stop asking questions, because they will always outnumber the answers.
He nodded and continued his perusal of the kitchen as an awkward silence descended over us. Gabe didn’t seem to notice or care, further highlighting my
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