Our stomachs are growling. We ladle slop into our bowls and prod it with our forks to make sure it’s not still alive. There are so many weird textures at play. Our low food supply reflects our carelessness, and the only place in Morris that delivers is closed. I’m stricken by a thought: Benigno’s might not deliver all the way out here. I think their policy is delivering only within city limits.
Morris sucks. Nicholas should have taken that job in Madison.
We take a bite on the count of three. I want to spit mine out but he bravely chews his mouthful, so I make myself do the same.
Nicholas takes another bite. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
Nicholas thinks Warheads are haute cuisine, so he doesn’tget to pass judgment on farfaccine. “The cauliflower you poured buffalo sauce all over and told me was a chicken wing,” I say. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
“It’s going to be a drill next, what with all the Butterfingers you eat. Storing them in your cheek like a chipmunk and letting them slowly erode your molars. You’ll be in dentures before you hit forty.”
“You’ll be right there with me, pal. You and your Skittles.” I can’t believe we’re still eating. We’re going to end up in the emergency room. “My tongue is numb. Is that normal?”
“I can taste this in my sinus cavities.Taste.Not smell.”
I dig out a can of La Croix and we split it. The taste pairs horribly, so it’s right on theme.
“We should mark today on the calendar and memorialize it by eating this travesty every year,” he remarks.
“I’ll copy down the recipe. Cinnamon, bread crumbs with egg in them. God, did we really use coffee creamer?”
“We’re artists. No one understands.” He slurps his sauce, a ring of red around his mouth.
I hear the crunching of gravel and we poke our heads into the living room. The tow truck driver is here. He must’ve had trouble finding the entrance to our driveway, because we’ve been waiting on him for close to an hour. I have to run upstairs and hide if I want to preserve my delusion that this never happened.
“Peace out,” I say, and vamoose.
“Coward!” he yells after me.
–
Nicholas finds me in the kitchen on Monday morning heating up farfaccine in the microwave. He falls against the doorjamblaughing, straightening his cuffs. He’s heading in to work. Today, the Junk Yard will only stay open from noon to three, and Brandy and I are the only ones scheduled. Brandy texted this morning to say that Melissa’s quitting, and I feel like we’re the kids in Willy Wonka’s factory, dropping off left and right.
“You’re eating a bowl of food poisoning, Naomi.”
“I’m hungry. Don’t judge.”
He takes down a bowl for himself and chisels out a congealed glob from the storage container. The microwave beeps, but I go ahead and press three more seconds onto the timer. When it beeps again, I press three more seconds. Nicholas stands there and lets me get away with it two more times before bumping me out of the way with his hip.
“We really need to go to the store,” I inform him. “There’s nothing here for dinner.”
“I’ll probably have dinner at Mom and Dad’s tonight.” He admires his reflection in the shiny oven door and smooths his hair. “You don’t have to come.”
This has never been optioned to me before.
I try not to be sulky. “Fine, then.”
“I thought that’s what you’d want.”
“To eat dinner alone? Here all by myself? Sure, that’s the dream.”
“You don’twantto go to my parents’ house,” he points out in a deadpan.
“No, I don’t. But I think you should try making it three days without going over there.”
“You know how my mom gets. Especially since we blew her off last night. I want to please everybody, but I can’t, and in somebody’s eyes I’m always falling short. Don’t put me in this position where I have to choose.”
I never make him choose, but he always does, anyway, which puts me in a position where I’m forced to be crabby. I press the release button on the microwave to open the door thirty seconds before his food is ready, then walk away.
