“Sure,” I mutter, because Nonna Sophia doesn’t so much care if we understand what she says, only that everyone’s looking at her while she says it.
“I used toloveonions.” Gertie releases a longing sigh. “Raw and piled on my hot dog or caramelized with portobello mushrooms and red wine and served over beef tenderloin.”
The rest of us hum along at the sound of that, even Arlene, so she must’ve already had Vonetta’s cooking.
“Now, if I eat a sliver as tiny as a fingernail,” Gertie continues, and I shudder at the mention of food and fingernail trimmings in the same sentence, “I have heartburn for a week.”
Rita pushes away from the table, standing and wrapping an arm around my waist as she reclines her head against mine. “You know what I miss?”
“Sex,” Wanda supplies, but when it comes to the residents at Lakeview going without, I’ve read evidence otherwise.
“Having energy,” Vonetta says. “Remember being able to go a whole day without a nap?”
I used to go weeks and months, and then I took that big nap that ruined everything, and here come the intrusive thoughts, rapid-fire style.
I failed a client, and myself.An invisible fist clamps around my throat.I let everyone down.
And once I screw up this chance, nobody will ever hire me again.
Sophia smooths the spot between her eyebrows with a couple of fingertips, tugging my attention back to her. “Frown lines that didn’t require Botox to go away.”
“Dancing,”Rita says over the top of them, snagging my hand and spinning me out so fast I nearly lose hold of my ice cream. She quickly curls me back to her, surprisingly strong for a little old lady. “If I could go back in time, I’d tell my younger self to dump Hector rather than give up my professional Latin dancing dreams. He told me it didn’t look right, having another man’s hands on his fiancée—”
“Blech,” I say, and I’m not alone in the sentiment. Toxic masculinity’s so 2016.
“Back then, I thought jealousy was an attractive quality in a man.” The corners of Rita’s smile tighten with regret. “Before I experienced the violent side of it.”
I’ve never heard much about Rita’s first husband, the one who led to her fleeing Cuba with her children. She shakes her head as if confused over finding herself speaking of him. “Point is, your hips”—she grips mine and swivels them in a figure eight shape—“are made for the cha-cha.”
“Thank you?” I go to take another bite of my ice cream, having reached the crispy waffle cone. It cracks along the seam and drips out, barely missing the top of Wanda’s blond head when she reclines and gives my booty a pat.
“Such a cute figure.” She continues praising and patting, as though I’ve downed a football rather than dessert. “Legs for days, too.”
Gertie snags Vonetta’s glasses right off her face, popping them on the bridge of her nose as she leans around the table. “Check it out. Her veins are still delicate and hidden beneath smooth skin, keeping their inside business on the inside.”
I didn’t realize veins had outside-the-body business, and I’m pretty sure biology has my back on that.
Wanda’s gaze lifts and narrows, and I instinctively wince and try to prepare myself, but she’s too much of a wild card. “I’ll never understand why you bother with a bra. If my tits were that small, I would’ve burned more of mine.”
It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, (from her and my well-endowed roommate in college), but I don’t want to give the real answer—that going braless is outside the lines.
Wanda cups her breasts over her clothing, grinning down at her ample cleavage with the unabashed awe of an adolescent boy. “At least these implants stay put.” She shimmies to demonstrate. “I’m finally in my braless era.”
“Yeah, me too,” Grandma Helen snarks, “and I didn’t even have to see a plastic surgeon. I just tuck ’em into the waistband of my panties every morning and go.”
Laughter fills the air, and I giggle along, even as heat flushes my cheeks. I just hope it’s dark enough to cover my embarrassment or I’ll never hear the end of it.
From the corner farthest from the patio door, Arlene’s quiet voice drifts over. “If I had your figure, going shopping for a new wardrobe—for a newswimsuit—wouldn’t be so daunting.”
Between my margarita, sugar buzz, and the fact that she practically melts into the background, I’d almost forgotten about the new member.
“I haven’t changed my hair or clothing since 1967. That’s the year I gave birth to my eldest.” Arlene doesn’t seem to be talking to us so much as just out loud, her self-consciousness palpable as she twirls the end of her braid round and round her finger. “I know my appearance is out of style, but I feel like nothing else looks good on me.”
“You’re all beautiful and amazing, and I won’t hear anything else,” I say, preaching what I’m working on practicing. “There’s no such thing as a beach body. All bodies are swimsuit bodies.”
While the Cronies are better at meditating, cheery sayings, and life in general, thanks to a self-love podcast I follow, I’m better at body positivity. “Shopping’s more fun with friends, and an updated style can be life altering, as long as it’s not about others, but focused on how it makesyoufeel.”
“Says the twenty-year-old,” Wanda says with a smack of her glossy pink lips, and did she seriously roll her eyes at me?
