Saturday's Storyteller: "Why isn't your fridge stocked with soy milk?"
by Belinda Roddie
"Why isn't your fridge stocked with soy milk?"
I'm making dinner at four in the afternoon. The whole place smells like garlic. I shift the frying pan on the burner and sneer.
"Because I have feelings for the soy, too, you monster."
At least Sean laughs at that. What he doesn't seem to remember is that I stopped being a vegetarian over seven months ago. He hasn't commented on the frozen slabs of icy beef lounging in my cramped freezer. I shuffle over to the cupboard and reach for the sea salt. His arms lock around me, pinning me to the counter.
"Let me help."
"You'll make a mess." He had come in for a bottle of beer. I'm the one who usually cooks.
"No, I won't."
"You'll ruin it."
"No, I won't."
I strain my voice like spaghetti into a wet whine, like a dog stuck outside in the rain. In response, Sean licks my ear. Kisses the sideburns I've been growing out. They're not quite as bushy as I want them to be yet.
Lifting the pan, I let the fish glimmer in the light of the stove. Grease stains paper towels as I let the fillets cool on a plate. We're eating early so we can get on the freeway to San Francisco by five o'clock. We have tickets to La Traviata. His favorite opera.
Sean pops open his beer and drinks loudly, his broad shoulders rolled back and silver froth staining his beard. He starts wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but I grab his wrist before he can finish the gesture. He kisses me in retaliation. I'm mute for the rest of the time I cook.
On the refrigerator is a post-it note. It has my father's phone number written on it in sharpie. He called me yesterday as if he suddenly remembered I existed. He says he's lonely ever since Mom died. She died just before she could get the word "accept" out of her mouth. Or maybe she was just saying, "Ack."
When we sit down to eat, Sean uses a dish towel as a bib. He's already dressed up for the performance. His childhood friend plays the lead male, Alfredo Germont. A 21st century Placido Domingo, he calls him. I think he needs to gain forty pounds before he can be entitled to such a compliment. The boy's too scrawny. He needs meat on his bones. Just like the meat I'm trying to see coagulate on my frail skeleton.
We eat our fish and joke about trivial things. Mostly what we did at our respective jobs. My eyes keep straying to the post-it. My chest tightens. I think of my father. Sallow-skinned. No mustache. But the eyebrows make up for it. Those eyebrows.
"For what it's worth," Sean whispers to me, disrupting my stream of consciousness, "I'm glad we're finally living together."
I make a mental note to buy him his favorite drink after the opera. A chocolate stout, specifically. He loves that stuff. He says (and I'm quoting this verbatim) that it's like if candy met awesome. I wonder if that goes well with a cod aftertaste.
After dinner, I save the leftover sauce I brewed up for the fish in a small container. I set it just beneath the cluster of carrots and the leftover kale from last night. Lemon yogurt hovers above my head. Packets of salami and swiss cheese sleep in the meat drawer. Those are for Sean. He loves his homemade deli sandwiches. He holds out two neckties for me and I shake my head.
"Not digging red or blue tonight."
"That cancels out a lot."
"Don't I have a green tie somewhere?"
"The one with the clocks on it?"
"I like that one."
Sean sticks out his tongue. "It's like if Salvador Dalà had his own clothing line. No thanks."
I settle on a purple tie. He knots it for me. His breath feels good on the nape of my neck. Not too hot or heavy like a sauna. More like when the sun oozes through a fissure in my window in the morning when I'm just waking up.
I imagine my father on my porch, watching this display. I see my mother crying when I tell her the truth. My father hits me with his belt. To get it all out of me, he told me.
He says he's lonely. Sean pulls my sports jacket over my shoulders. It's getting more snug now that I'm gaining that much needed weight.
"Bravo," he says before blowing an exaggerated kiss.
"Save it, my dear."
He tastes so good when his lips are against mine. I bet Mom didn't taste so sweet. Poor guy, my father, not having a cheek to peck or a queer's face to smack. Sucks to be him.
Before we go, I yank the yellow plague off my fridge. A soaking pot sits in the sink. I dunk the paper into the lukewarm soapy water, watching the black warning signs blur into white.
The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Josh Low.
"Why isn't your fridge stocked with soy milk?"
I'm making dinner at four in the afternoon. The whole place smells like garlic. I shift the frying pan on the burner and sneer.
"Because I have feelings for the soy, too, you monster."
At least Sean laughs at that. What he doesn't seem to remember is that I stopped being a vegetarian over seven months ago. He hasn't commented on the frozen slabs of icy beef lounging in my cramped freezer. I shuffle over to the cupboard and reach for the sea salt. His arms lock around me, pinning me to the counter.
"Let me help."
"You'll make a mess." He had come in for a bottle of beer. I'm the one who usually cooks.
"No, I won't."
"You'll ruin it."
"No, I won't."
I strain my voice like spaghetti into a wet whine, like a dog stuck outside in the rain. In response, Sean licks my ear. Kisses the sideburns I've been growing out. They're not quite as bushy as I want them to be yet.
Lifting the pan, I let the fish glimmer in the light of the stove. Grease stains paper towels as I let the fillets cool on a plate. We're eating early so we can get on the freeway to San Francisco by five o'clock. We have tickets to La Traviata. His favorite opera.
Sean pops open his beer and drinks loudly, his broad shoulders rolled back and silver froth staining his beard. He starts wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but I grab his wrist before he can finish the gesture. He kisses me in retaliation. I'm mute for the rest of the time I cook.
On the refrigerator is a post-it note. It has my father's phone number written on it in sharpie. He called me yesterday as if he suddenly remembered I existed. He says he's lonely ever since Mom died. She died just before she could get the word "accept" out of her mouth. Or maybe she was just saying, "Ack."
When we sit down to eat, Sean uses a dish towel as a bib. He's already dressed up for the performance. His childhood friend plays the lead male, Alfredo Germont. A 21st century Placido Domingo, he calls him. I think he needs to gain forty pounds before he can be entitled to such a compliment. The boy's too scrawny. He needs meat on his bones. Just like the meat I'm trying to see coagulate on my frail skeleton.
We eat our fish and joke about trivial things. Mostly what we did at our respective jobs. My eyes keep straying to the post-it. My chest tightens. I think of my father. Sallow-skinned. No mustache. But the eyebrows make up for it. Those eyebrows.
"For what it's worth," Sean whispers to me, disrupting my stream of consciousness, "I'm glad we're finally living together."
I make a mental note to buy him his favorite drink after the opera. A chocolate stout, specifically. He loves that stuff. He says (and I'm quoting this verbatim) that it's like if candy met awesome. I wonder if that goes well with a cod aftertaste.
After dinner, I save the leftover sauce I brewed up for the fish in a small container. I set it just beneath the cluster of carrots and the leftover kale from last night. Lemon yogurt hovers above my head. Packets of salami and swiss cheese sleep in the meat drawer. Those are for Sean. He loves his homemade deli sandwiches. He holds out two neckties for me and I shake my head.
"Not digging red or blue tonight."
"That cancels out a lot."
"Don't I have a green tie somewhere?"
"The one with the clocks on it?"
"I like that one."
Sean sticks out his tongue. "It's like if Salvador Dalà had his own clothing line. No thanks."
I settle on a purple tie. He knots it for me. His breath feels good on the nape of my neck. Not too hot or heavy like a sauna. More like when the sun oozes through a fissure in my window in the morning when I'm just waking up.
I imagine my father on my porch, watching this display. I see my mother crying when I tell her the truth. My father hits me with his belt. To get it all out of me, he told me.
He says he's lonely. Sean pulls my sports jacket over my shoulders. It's getting more snug now that I'm gaining that much needed weight.
"Bravo," he says before blowing an exaggerated kiss.
"Save it, my dear."
He tastes so good when his lips are against mine. I bet Mom didn't taste so sweet. Poor guy, my father, not having a cheek to peck or a queer's face to smack. Sucks to be him.
Before we go, I yank the yellow plague off my fridge. A soaking pot sits in the sink. I dunk the paper into the lukewarm soapy water, watching the black warning signs blur into white.
The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Josh Low.
Comments
Post a Comment