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Scene #17
"How old are you?" he asked. I cinched the belt on my
terrycloth bathrobe then poured myself a glass of orange juice.
"Thirty-three." I usually shave three years off my age when asked,
which I seldom am, but he wasn't going to be around long and it
didn't matter if he knew. "I'm assuming you
aren't married." "No. You seem to be feeling better
this morning." "Ever been?" "Never."
"I'm forty." "You know that, huh?" How could he
know how old he was if he couldn't remember who he was? His muscles
rolled and bunched under the too-tight T-shirt I'd loaned him to
sleep in. I covered my little hum of appreciation with a cough.
Forget it, I told myself. You aren't going there. It never works
out. "I have a bag of disposable razors in the left drawer of the
vanity," I said. "Help yourself." "I already did. I used
the blue toothbrush, too. I like that pink shaving cream." He
leaned into me and inhaled. "Smells like you."
"You--what? When?" He'd used my toothbrush? Gross. "This
morning. You were still asleep. I covered you with the comforter.
You looked cold." "You came through my bedroom
while I was asleep?" "Do you know you snore?"
"I most certainly do not. Please stay out of my personal
space when I'm in it." His smile flattened. "Not a
problem. It's not as if I'm moving in." Darned right he
wasn't moving in. I wanted my solitary routine back. I wanted
control of my television. I wanted to lie around in my underwear
and leave dirty dishes in the sink. I felt sorry for him, but at
this point I felt a whole lot sorrier for myself. "If you want
orange juice or cereal you'd better hurry up. We're leaving soon."
"I was hoping I could stay here and read your morning
paper, make a few phone calls." "You have to come
with me." "Of course. I shouldn't expect you'd leave me
alone in your apartment where I could ransack your belongings and
steal your valuables." "Don't be ridiculous. I
just want to help you. We should be together for that."
"You didn't help last night like you promised."
Now that hurt my feelings. I'd opened my home to him. He
got a half-gallon of milk from the refrigerator and set it on the
counter next to the orange juice. Rummaging through my cupboards,
he found a loaf of bread and my peanut butter. "Have any whole
wheat?" "No." I grabbed a spoon and swiped peanut butter
from the jar. I licked it like a lollipop. "Never been
married, huh? So, how often do you bring home men you don't know?"
he asked, slathering peanut butter on a slice of bread.
I gasped. How dare he? "You tried to become a member of the 60
mile an hour club with a woman you can't even recall meeting, and
you're criticizing me?" "Not criticizing. Just curious."
"Well the answer is never. Never, ever, ever." I stuck the spoon
upside down in my mouth, rolling the peanut butter off with my
tongue, squashing it against my palate. "Never? I'm a
complete stranger." He stepped back and stared at me. A frown
wrinkled his forehead. "Or am I? Are you my wife?"
"Nnnhhhwwwha?" I laughed, sucking peanut butter into those little
holes in the roof of my mouth. It stung like crazy. "Haggh! Haggh!"
I grabbed a paper towel and blew my nose. "Are you
all right?" "Uh, huh. Haggh." "Are you certain?"
"I'm fide." I blew my nose again. Much better.
"I'm glad you find my problem amusing."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at you. You caught me by surprise."
"I know I belong with someone. I thought for a moment
it might be you." "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but
I'm definitely not your wife." "Who said I was
disappointed? You're not exactly pleasant to be around."
My mouth dropped open. How could he say that?
"You're bossy. I don't like bossy women." He dipped his knife back
into the peanut butter. "Not that I don't appreciate your dubious
hospitality." "Dubious? You used my toothbrush. You're
wearing my T-shirt. And aren't you spreading that a little thick?"
That was Jiff and the jar was almost empty. "Ever
heard of lunchmeat? Tomatoes? Vegetables?" he grumbled.
"Lunchmeat is full of nitrates. But I'll pick some up for you this
evening." "Don't bother. I'll be out of your hair by
then." While he made his sandwich, my mind raced.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you," I said. "I really want to help."
He poured milk into one of my mixing bowls, added half a
box of sugar-coated Crunchios, then tried to catch the cereal as it
floated over the rim. "You're doing that backwards."
"I might not remember my name, but I believe I
remember how to make a bowl of cereal." Apparently
so, I thought, watching in amazement as he chug-a-lugged the
Crunchios, hardly pausing to chew. "Do you have to
stare while I eat?" "Sorry. Wow. You must be hungry."
"A half a can of spaghetti and a few peaches aren't exactly a
full meal." "You had a can of tuna."
The look he shot me was distinctly sour so I didn't mention the ice
cream. He polished off my orange juice straight from
the carton. "I'm ready whenever you are," he said, tucking the
sandwich into a pocket. "Is there a library close by? They'll have
today's paper and a computer and phone." "You can
use my phone and computer at the shop. I'll be ready to go in
fifteen minutes." "Okay." He folded the juice carton
and placed it in the trash. "Hurry up, will you? I have a good
feeling about today and I want to get started." "Now
who's being bossy?" He had a good feeling. I had a knot the size of
Rhode Island in my stomach about what the day would bring.
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