“Does that mean I can sleep on the bed?”
“No.” I sliced the rest of the way into the hard pasta, working toward the softer section. I’d never had this dish before, and in the pictures, they were able to spoon it onto a plate. Still, it couldn’t be that bad, right? I lifted a hardened square with the spatula and tried to gently place it onto Roscoe’s plate. However, it slid off and hit the ceramic with a loud clink.
The werewolf gave it another sniff, picking at it with his fork. “I think I’m gonna call the ASPCA. This is abuse.”
“Just eat the damn shit!” I grabbed another plate and cut myself a piece. “It looks rough, but I’m sure it tastes fine.”
“Is this… yer first time cooking anything?”
“It’s not! It’s just my first time ever using an oven.”
“Christ almighty,” he muttered, stabbing the pasta again, which had clumped together in a brown-colored mass instead of the usual red. He shoveled a forkful into his mouth and gagged. Leaning over the sink, he let the food fall from his long tongue and into the garbage disposal.
“Wow.” I stuck my fork into the ziti and held it to my mouth. “You didn’t even chew it.”
“And break my precious teeth?” Roscoe heaved again, his ears pressing against the sides of his head.
“Stop being so dramatic.” I took a bite and immediately regretted it. How in the hell did I manage to completely change the flavor profile of premade tomato sauce? The more I chewed, the more my body rejected it. There was no way I’d be able to swallow this along with my pride.
I ran over to the sink and spat everything out before rinsing my mouth with water.
The werewolf opened the refrigerator to grab another bottle of beer, remaining smugly quiet.
“What? You’re not going to take a few more jabs? Kick me when I’m down?”
“I need a moment,” Roscoe said, calmly composing himself. “What you just did to Italian cuisine brought my grandma back to life and killed her all over again.”
I rolled my eyes. “I thought your grandma was Jewish.”
“I had two, ya know.” He took another sip of beer, swishing it around before swallowing. “I don’t know how you did it. You made it taste so bad that even beer don’t work.”
I grabbed a frozen pizza from the freezer, but Roscoe snatched it out of my hand.
“No! You already raped my dead grandma, and I’m not letting you desecrate Mama Celeste.” He pulled a pizza pan from the cabinet and frowned at the brick of ruined pasta sitting on top of the stove. “You were a victim of one man’s hubris,” he whispered, running his clawed fingers over burnt cheese.
I raised an eyebrow at that uncharacteristically articulate statement. “Are you done hamming it up for the Tony’s?”
“Yeah, I think you get the point. Yer not allowed near a stove no more.” Roscoe removed the pizza from the box and preheated the oven.
“It’s my apartment!” I shouted as he shoved me out of the kitchen.
We ate in front of the television, him sitting on the air mattress and me on my beanbag chair, flipping through the channels. There hadn’t been enough time lately to just sit down and watch something, so I wasn’t even sure what basic cable had to offer.
“Hold up,” Roscoe said with his mouth full. “Go back one.”
I pressed the down arrow on the remote and recognized the show, but I was kind of surprised someone like Roscoe would be interested.
“The Next Generationwas one of the good ones,” he said, taking another bite. “They don’t makeStar Treklike this no more.”
“Didn’t peg you for a Trekkie.”
“Get to know me, and I’ll surprise ya.” Despite him being an annoying piece of shit, I felt comfortable. He was like an ugly brown couch from the 80s that was held together by duct tape and smelled like farts, but was still the coziest thing in the room.
I caught his eye, so I turned back toward the TV and yawned. “I should probably get to bed soon.”
“Wanna have some fun first?” His heavy tail pounded the mattress, and he shot me a jagged grin, a rope of drool hanging from an exposed canine.
“Not tonight. I haven’t been feeling all that great.”
