Anyway. I hope you have a good time.
I type “I miss you,” but I erase it to wish him well on his first game. Saying I miss him after what we did is a bridge too far with hurricane consequences. “Break a leg” didn’t sound right either, in case he actually does.
“Stop thinking about him,” I mumble to myself.
“Get your big toe out of my butt!” I swat Marcela’s foot, which is burrowing into my crack, and block her smack with a to-go cover.
Our sisterly fight scenes are a time. At any moment, a flick or gesture could ignite a choreographed kung fu film mixed with MMA.
Marcela assumed that because she’s older she’d get the drop on me—literally, in this case, with the elbow she launches from two feet above my head. I roll off the couch moments before the moisturized joint slams into the cushion.
“Bitchhh! My wig!”
She’s stronger, but I’m faster.
I twirl the glueless hairpiece from a safe distance away, between my couch and the kitchen doorway. It’s a cute cut with bangs and wavy layers that reach beyond her shoulders.
Well,reached.
“Don’t mess up the curls. I’m wearing that on a date this weekend,” she snaps with a hand on the stocking cap that covers her cornrows.
“Don’t put your toe in my butt.”
“I wasn’t trying to. My feet are cold.”
She stares but sighs when I raise a brow. Every younger sibling has their limit. I’ll set this wig on fire and not think twice about it.
“Miriam,” she says through gritted teeth, “I apologize. May I have my hair back please, and a pair of socks?”
“You can.” I hand her the ombre brown wig and retrieve some socks from the basket of folded clothes next to the steps.
Popcorn, raspberry mules, and rom-coms are the highlight of our Valentine’s Day. I planned my evening in on the couch for a party of one that became two after Marcela texted she was on her way. Based on the scowl and the bag of liquor in her hand when she arrived, her date with Ian in finance didn’t end well.
Her phone has been blowing up all night with texts from the senator she sees on the side. I asked why they’re not together for the holiday and got a snort.
Marcela settles under a blanket and grabs a bowl of kettle corn. “Can we watchWaiting to Exhaleafter this?”
I frown. “How is that a rom-com?”
Her shoulder lifts. “It was funny to me,” she mumbles under her breath as another message lights her screen.
“Why don’t you go see him?”
She sucks her teeth and pulls the blanket over her little black dress. “He’s at dinner…with his wife.”
“Marcela!”
“Technicallyestrangedwife. They’ve been separated for over a year and live in different houses.”
I fold my arms over my “I like cheese” PJ set.
“They’re both miserable. They’re only married because of their families.” Marcela tries to explain her situation like it will justify entertaining an undivorced penis.
“They haven’t made an appearance together in two years. They’ll file for divorce once their youngest graduates this year.”
“And you’re okay with being a mistress?”
“He’s not my man, trust. I’m not interested in a commitment, with him or anyone else.” She tosses popcorn into her mouth. “The only reason we meet up twice a month is because his dick has girth and he eats my pussy for thirty minutes straight.”
