She was better, I guess, sarcastic but friendlier in high school, but for some inexplicable reason she flipped a switch and went full demon banshee our senior year.
Even last year at the engagement party, after thirteen years of Annie-free bliss, I still knew exactly which Li sister was standing in front of me, way before she opened her mouth to insult me. She was just… alot. Everything about her was immediately overwhelming. She’d grown up to be so devastatingly beautiful it knocked the air outta me, and it wasa fuckin’ lot. The tattoos down her arms and legs were a lot. Theslinky dress that hid no part of her insane body wastoo much, and then her eyes—sharp and gorgeous, cutting straight through me as she told me I’d aged like spoiled milk, every word rolling off those pillowy lips? It wasway too fuckin’ much.
She was so much that I had to pound vodka sodas just to take the edge off—to dull the intensity of our constant, violent, verbal sparring that picked up right where it left off thirteen years ago. It backfired, of course. Now she still thinks I’m a trashy, illiterate sausage who can’t hold his liquor… and also thinks she’s sexy.
I hate that she’s right. Because yeah, the accent I’ve spent years trying to get rid of and the whole (checks notes)porn thingmake me kinda trashy. I can read scientific journals and articles all day every day, but I can’t make it past the first page of any sort of fiction book (unless it’s by Tolkien, and even then, I was fourteen and it took memonths), so maybe I am half-illiterate. I also really like sausage. In fact, I’m on my way to eat it right now like a walkin’ freakin’ stereotype. And anyone with eyes can see that thirty-year-old Annie Li is sexy as hell. In fact, anyonewithouteyes would be able to feel it, too, if they squeezed that curve in her waist.
After all these years, it’s still incredibly frustrating to be reminded that Annie Li is always right.
I shake my head, redirecting my attention towards the nicer, better twin. “How’s it hangin’, beautiful? Visiting your parents?”And the spawn of Satan?I squeeze May and lift her off her feet, avoiding my penis and her hair.
She brushes my invisible cooties off her shirt after I put her down. “Yes, I need some things for the wedding,” she says.
I realize I’m grinning like a lunatic when May manages to look down her nose at me while being a foot shorter. “Are you tired or are you high?” she asks me.
“Yes,” I offer.
“Hmm.” She doesn’t judge because she’s the much nicer twin. “How are you getting to the wedding, by the way? Just flying in for the weekend?”
Tom has some douchey qualities, and that includes an appreciation of glamour and glitz and a flaunting of wealth that can be a little cringey. Including having his rich as hell, very kind fiancé pay to have a wedding in South Beach. Because he went to the University of Miami. Ten years ago. I’m not complaining, though.
“I’m making a road trip out of it, actually. A whole bunch of restaurants down the eastern seaboard have been reaching out to our lab, asking for someone to come visit and check out their kitchens and menus and stuff. I’m leaving next Thursday, and it’ll take all week. Staying in a bunch of rental properties. I’ll be in South Beach the night before your welcome dinner.”
My only search criteria for those rentals was ‘fuckin’ epic kitchen’ so that I’d be able to film some real good content forNakedReactions. The nicer and bigger the kitchen, though, the nicer and bigger the house, so I’m renting out some pretty sick properties. Two of them even have a pool and a separate pool house. Maybe I’ll throw a party for restaurant kitchen staff. I’m psyched, actually. It’ll be a real productive week.
“Sounds fun.”
“May Li.”
“What?”
“You and I haven’t hung out in mad long, and I’m going to your wedding in a few weeks. We haven’t worked together for a bit.” Over the last few years I’ve given May some insider info on city restaurants, and as an analyst she’d recommend them as “profitable investments” to her firm. “What gives?”
She shrugs. “My schedule doesn’t leave a lot of room for ‘hanging out.’ I’m in the middle of an importantrecommendation.” She thinks for a moment. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Monday. Federal holiday. I have a rare day off.”
“Ah. Well, nothing.” Rubbing cream on my infected dick.
“Want to come to the beach with me and Tom? Rockaways?”
I think about it. The ocean could be good for my dick. The osmotic pressure would help reduce the swelling. I know that the high salt concentration lends itself to antibacterial properties. And there are a bunch of minerals in the ocean that also have anti-inflammatory properties. Although this may only work for surface wounds. Maybe not infections like mine?
I realize I’ve been thinking all of this out loud when May Li very kindly says, “I probably wouldn’t go into the ocean with an infected penis.”
I laugh because May Li can be hilarious. “’Tis but a scratch, May Li. Cooking accident.” I make a decision. Why not? “Okay, I’ll come and stay out of the ocean. Text me where on the beach.”
We give each other one last hug. May makes sure to leave space between her and my dick, and I continue my way down to my mom’s.
“You’re high as a fuckin’ kite,” is the first thing Ma says to me, smacking me on the side of the head.
I bring her in for a hug, her fluffy hair tickling my face, glasses mashing into my chest. “I missed you, too.”
“You got any more?” my sister, Valentina, asks from behind her.
I dig around in my pockets, pushing crumbs of unknown origin and some change around. I find two, pick some lint off of them, and hold them out.
