The next morning, I wake up in a nest of cushions inside Lennox’s blanket fort. Asa is already up and making something amazing in the kitchen. Lennox is curled next to me, his hand tangled in my hair. I try to move, but he mutters in his sleep.
“Shhh, Galadriel, I gotta eat your elf puss.”
Giggling, I extricate myself from his arms, and stumble into the kitchen, bow-legged and hungover.
“Coffee, sweetpea?”
“You know it.”
As Asa fixes my coffee, and puts a cinnamon roll on a plate, I pull a notepad and piece of paper towards me. There had been a debate about elves last night. We had decided they were definitely gender fluid.
Gandalf the great big bigot
Gan-dolph
You told me that
“I cannot pass”
You ass
You don’t even know me
You're not my homie
I’m more than passing
I am
Asa has bacon cooking for breakfast BLT’s. followed by Banana-walnut-cream cheese muffins. Apparently the cinnamon roll is just an appetizer.
As I watch him wash lettuce leaves, the wave of love that flows over me for this huge, gentle man is just staggering.
I love him so much.
When I’d told him about the maggots and hate mail. He had immediately called his security people. From now on all my mail will be picked up and checked by them before it is delivered to me.
He has also asked the security firm to add extra cameras to their system, so now the cabin is included in their scope.
It makes me feel safe. Safe and loved. Asa, my rock.
Hugo is the angsty one. I want to heal him, but I also love it when he bosses me about. When he is the boss, I will dowhateverhe tells me.
Lennox is our wild child, always making me laugh. He does and says anything he wants, not giving two hoots about what anyone thinks of him. He is perfectly imperfect.
But Asa is our rock and our glue. I don’t think those two metaphors go together. Unless you are making a pet rock, like Patsy has a collection of.
I realize I am a little bit delirious. “Hey babe, am I still drunk?”
“Drunk on love?” Asa asks me. I watch him wipe his greasy hands on the apron. Those hands were greasy in a different way last night. Or rather this morning. The clock in the kitchen tells me it is 10am. We probably fell asleep at about five.
No wonder I’m a little loopy.
I pick up a newspaper that is on the kitchen counter and flick through to the arts section. I want to see what it says about the performance Hugo’s dad conducted.
Opening the center spread, I freeze.
‘What a mess! Last night The New York Philharmonic and Carlie Canterberry both performed at the Lincoln Center. While pop fans were piling into the Rose Theatre, classical music lovers headed to the Geffen. This critic spent the first half of the night experiencing cello at its most sublime. The second part of my night was a mess of Carlie Canterberry’s ‘best’ hits, with the woman herself not able to hit the top notes, and moving like she needed a walker. Conclusion? It was a beauty and the beast kind of evening in New York, and Carlie was certainly not the beauty.’
