He meows, flashing his fangs. Demanding little gremlin.
I pull the catnip from the cabinet and sprinkle a modest amount over his untouched dry kibble that he’ll only tolerate if fish isn’t on the menu. The second the catnip touches down on his meal, he attacks it like I’ve given him the feline equivalent of a five-star meal.
“Just a little. You have to make this last,” I tell him, putting the container away. “We’re on a tight budget starting immediately.”
He ignores me, too busy drowning in his drug-laced dinner to acknowledge my financial concerns.
I return to my Hungry-Man tray, now all the way cold and even less appetizing. But in about half an hour the cardboard-textured Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes with the consistency of wet cement will look gourmet. The brownie, inexplicably, is solid. I enjoy that dessert even without any cannabis coercion.
My mom would be horrified.
She used to make the best katsu curry—crispy pork cutlet over rice, smothered in a sauce she’d simmer for hours. The apartment would smell like spices and home, and I’d come back from class to find her humming in the kitchen, an apron tied over her work clothes.
I haven’t had her cooking in three years. Not since she decided that putting an ocean between herself and the wreckage of our family was the only way to survive.
I try not to blame her. She stayed as long as she could, weathered the arrest and the trial and the public humiliation. But everyone has a breaking point, and watching your husbandget sentenced to federal prison while reporters shout questions about your complicity will test even the strongest marriage.
She begged me to come with her. Start fresh, she said. Leave the past in the past. But I couldn’t abandon my dad. Even after everything. Even knowing what he did.
So she left, and I stayed, and now I eat Hungry-Man dinners alone while my cat gets high on catnip beside me.
Living the dream.
I choke down the last edible bites of my meal, pitch the plastic tray in the trash, and sink back into the couch cushions. My paperback waits where I left it. I smile at page 73 of my current read featuring the standard-issue grump who owns a failing bookshop and the relentlessly cheerful florist moving in next door. Pure formulaic escapism at its finest. Absolute relief from the unpredictable mess of my actual existence.
I’m three chapters in, just getting to the part where the florist accidentally destroys the bookstore’s window display with an errant delivery truck, when my phone buzzes.
Then buzzes again.
I return to my book until I can no longer ignore the explosion of notifications.
Groaning, I pick it up. My phone screen is lit with notifications from the agency group chat named Off the Books, our sad attempt at witty subterfuge that fools exactly no one.
Group Chat: Off the Books
Rina
Emergency request. Anyone available tonight? 2K in cash. Client is a divorcee hosting a passion party. Needs a plus-one who can look pretty and pretend not to be intimidated by vibrators.
Saylor
Are vibrators supposed to be intimidating?
Cam
There’s one called The Detonator. Trust. It’s intimidating.
Saylor
Curiosity buffering.
Forrest
Why the hell am I still on this group chat?
Cam
The Detonator is two-prong. Perfect for DP. And the vibration is so powerful, it’s the closest thing you’ll get to the strength of a sybian.
