“Ain’t she the bossy one?” I say this to the thief eyeing my mug because she’s the only one being nice to me.
Leaving her a drop of fluid in the bottom, I set the cup down, and totter to the bathroom where I splash some water on my face. Back at the futon, I sweat like a pig from the exertion.
Sam waits with the damn thermometer held high. I’ve had it in my mouth so many times, I may just bite it in two. When it chirps, I snatch it from her hand, and lie.
“It’s perfectly normal.”
“Give it here.” Using the tone of my third grade teacher, Mrs. Rasmuffin, she holds out her palm.
I don’t want her to see the number so I grab my dirty dish and drop both in the sink.
Annoyed, Cat follows and sips at the soapy water. “Mew.”
“Listen, it don’t matter if I got a little ol’ fever. It’ll pass.” I think I’m funny as hell but Sam is not amused.
“Honey, people are, like… you know, dying.” She squirms and tears form. “I don’t want to lose y-”
“Ah, sugar. Don’t cry. I’m not kicking the bucket any time soon. My temp was just a tiny bit high.” I pour a refill of soup, drink it all down, and force my stomach not to heave it back. “Okay?”
“You want some coffee?”
“Think I’ll pass.” Eyes heavy, I lean back, close my eyes, and I’m out.
The first week in our apartment, jackhammers sounded next door from dawn until dusk. My head pounds in about the same way, only worse. Also, the room spins when I sit at the table. Was I drinking? If so, where’re all the empty bottles?
Huh.
A few inches away, my lovely wife sits with her nose to her laptop screen. “How the hell do I know if the oven is up to temp?”
Rose oozes frustration. “It should chirp or something. Every stove is different. Are you sure it’s on?
My gal reaches over and touches the glass window. “I guess so. It’s warm.”
“Okay, that’s a start. Where’s the knob at?”
Sam turns the ancient center dial all the way to the right, then left, and leaves it in somewhere in the middle. I get the feeling the two of them have been at this for some time and when I laugh, my sweet angel sticks her tongue out at me.
She squints at the oven control. “Like I said, most of the numbers have worn off. Let’s just say the number is more than one-seventy and less than four-hundred.”
Her cousin’s frowning face pops up on the spare monitor. “Fine. Turn it almost to the highest. Now, you need oil.”
“This?” My lovely wife opens a cabinet, picks up a can of extra virgin, and holds it in front of the screen.
I almost say something until I note the fire extinguisher near our feet. If needed, I can save our apartment.
Rose, however, tries to fend off disaster. “Check the grocery bag. I bought you coconut oil.”
“Hey, I looked online and it said I could use olive.” Sam pastes a recipe into the chat window and the other girl moans.
“Hun, some fats burn at high temps. Didn’t your mom teach you anything?”
“Shit, you know I suck at this.” My domestically challenged wife parks her lovely ass back down in the chair and covers her face with her hands.
Not wanting to witness her complete undoing, I kiss the top of her head, shove my face at the laptop cam, and wave. “Hi Rose.”
She grins back. “Look who’s back from the dead. Tell your wife all she needs to do is open the metal container and lightly coat the wings. And Sebastian? You look like hell. Go back to bed.”
“You are too kind.” Thinking she’s probably right, I make for the john but when I come out, Rose is about to blow a gasket.
