He looks like he’s about to protest, so I tug the mop away.
“Seriously, Vin. It’ll make me feel better if you sleep.”
Well, he can’t argue with that. And he doesn’t. He nods, goes to the couch, and collapses. I can tell from his breaths that he’s asleep in less than a minute.
I clean the mess quietly, cautiously.
Don’t rush,he’d said to me on the phone.Be safe.
But ever since the accident I feel like my entire life is on the rush setting. I don’t remember the last time I walked to the train. I jog the whole city. I’m late for work and bursting into Daniel’s art class halfway through.
I’m always rushing. Except…
As soon as I finish cleaning the mess, I tiptoe to my room and grab my supplies out of my backpack. Thank goodness he’s still sleeping when I get back.
I barely take my eyes off him while I draw him. I’ve haphazardly chosen a blue colored pencil because I didn’t want to dig through my pencil bag and wake him. It takes twenty minutesfor me to get every element down on paper, the tip of his head all the way down to his socked toes. The drawing is terrible. He’s arched and looks like he’s flying off the couch. His mouth is in the wrong place, his hands are laughable. His chest too big, his legs too short. It doesn’t look like Vin at all. But…
I’m not rushing.
It really, really doesn’t look like Vin. So I decide to give the drawing a caption, for clarity.Vin sleeping,I write, and then, after a moment of thought, add one word.
Safe.
Seven
“Will you comeover and make a dinner for me that will impress my date and make it seem like I’m an incredible cook, but also notsofancy that it’s obvious I didn’t make it? Also will you bring some bananas? I’m out of bananas.” This is Raff over the phone.
“Is this date with the handsome lady bartender?” I ask as I pack up my bag. I’m in my gray little cubicle at work. Sadly, I didn’t even have time to tinker in the kitchen today.
“No, she was a few nights ago.”
“And how was it?”
“Transcendent. She’s extremely into R.E.M. and once split a cab with Bill Murray.”
“Did you have chemistry?”
“Oh, for sure. I met God for about three straight minutes.”
“Gross. Are you going to see her again?”
“Hopefully! She rocks.”
“But this date…”
“Is with my accountant.”
“Raff! For the love of God, don’t shit where you eat.”
“Oh, come on. You only live once. And I love his tiny pants. I’d like to see what’s inside them.”
“So you need me to make you a dinner that will help you get into a man’s tiny pants.”
“Exactly.”
“French omelet it is. I’ll be there in an hour.” It’s a rarefriend that you go to the grocery store for after work, come to his house to make him a dinner you will neither eat nor take credit for, and then vacate to give him the opportunity to get laid by an ill-chosen partner. But yes, Raff is that rare friend.
Raff and I met (of course) at a karaoke bar. I mean, can you think of any better best friend origin story than him needing a duet partner for “Islands in the Stream” and me, a perfect stranger, volunteering?
