“...Y entonces? El restaurante - permisito - un momento-”
I try for the tenth time to snag the hanger, but it’s just a fraction of an inch out of reach from where I’m sitting.
“‘Sta bien, sta bien,” Utkarsh laughs from his end of the line. “If your girlfriend is calling you can hang up on me.”
“No. it’s this-” I pause for a minute trying to keep the frustration, irritation, agitation melange from sounding in my voice.
I don’t have time for this…
It’s just one of those days when ‘frustration’ starts to mutate into that thickness in my throat.
“I can’t reach one of my sweaters,” I mumble furiously.
“Try using some salad tongs,” he offers.
If almost literally anyone else had suggested that I probably would have burned a hole through their ears with some choice language. But I know he’s not joking in the least, so I resist the urge to throw something.
“That’s a good idea.” It takes me 20 seconds to be able to say it outloud. “Give me a minute.”
“No problem, man. I’m right here. Make sure they’re clean,” he adds teasingly.
“As if I’d leave dirty dishes around,” I half mutter, turning the cell to speaker-phone as I wheel myself to the kitchen. Utkarsh just chuckles patiently, pretending he can’t feel my sour mood radiating through the cell.
“So where are you two going on your date?” he asks randomly as I rummage through the kitchen drawer.
“It’s not a date.”
“You always say that and I never believe you. Stop wasting your breath. I need suggestions. Pragna says I have to take her out to dinner next week.”
“It’s that place by the- d-,” The salad tongs grip the sweater but one of their ‘teeth’ poke through a gap in the weave, stretching it out and leaving behind a bigger space than there ought to be.
“For heaven’s sake…”
There’s that aggravating incompetence again, swamping me like a damp comforter on a hot summer day. I have to stop and rest my head in my hand before I really lose it.
“Did you get it off the hanger?”
“Yeah, but it’s got a weird gap in it now.”
“Layer it with a jacket,” he suggests. Then there’s a pause. “Pragna says to wear the blue leather jacket.”
“Do you have me on speakerphone right now?” I accuse, a little more than a little irritated.
“Of course not!” he scoffs indignantly, “She just thinks you look good in leather jackets. She’s so disloyal.”
I can hear his fiance warbling in the background, “I can’t help it if he pulls it off better than you. You’re too sweet for the bad boy look.”
“Ah, true true,” he sounds like he’s smiling. “This woman will flatter her way out of anything. It’s the way they are.”
“Doubtful,” I scoff, “Alicia has made it her hobby to complain about everything since Junior High. I can hardly breathe.”
“That’s their way too,” Utkarsh laughs a little too hard. “I just lucked out with mine.”
“You better believe you lucked out,” Pragna scolds from somewhere nearby and Utkarsh’s chuckle makes the speaker pop with a weird electronic attempt to recalibrate until it sounds like the sound effects from an old Nintendo game.
“Anyway, I’m going to let you go. She’s making me dinner tonight, but that means I have to cut all the vegetables.”
“And he’s awful at it!” She calls out for my benefit. “I have to whip him into shape.”
“So, I’m going to be a long time. I’ll catch you later. Enjoy your date-”
He ends with a taunting sweep of his voice, and hangs up before I can make a rebuttal. I glower knowing good and well he’s imagining my expression while he laughs his butt off.
“Whatever,” I mumble, putting my phone on my nightstand and pulling off my tee shirt to change into the ruined sweater.
My alarm beeps for what feels like the millionth time today with a ‘gentle reminder’ to take my pain medication. I want to throw a hissy fit like I’m 5-years-old. Some other 5-year-old, with a different life than mine. I can’t remember ever believing I could get anything out of my mother by throwing a tantrum the way other kids did, kicking and screaming at the top of their lungs - “I don’t wanna! I don’t wanna!”
But I’m not going to.
Not today of all days.
I don’t want to be…
Every five seconds gravity seems to grow a little stronger, but shaking my head I force myself to be calm. To be focused and reasonable.
…But all the same, if I’m going on a ‘not date,’ I'd prefer to enjoy the company I'm keeping.
My blood pressure has been so low for the last few days it’s unsettling, and I have a less than subtle suspicion I’m becoming anemic.
Every time moving the undead portion of my body is a little bit harder than it needs to be, it’s like a cold chill from my neck down…to the part of my decaying framework where all feeling ends.
It’s too hard to tell whether I’m dying for real or just on the inside.
This sigh will be the last one…
It’s time to start putting on my face and brightening up as much as can be managed.
“It can always be managed.”
That’s what Mom always says.
Your mood - how you carry yourself - those are all your choice. You can’t blame anyone or anything else.
Wheeling myself to the bathroom, I get the brush and arrange my hair in the mirror, reminding myself of the way Mom used to come into her office after the worst days imaginable, fix her hair in her little compact mirror as if nothing else in the world mattered and then say to me:
“Well, my little angel, what are we upset about? There’s nothing to be upset about is there? Let’s smile then, yes? No need to be gloomy.”
We inhale to collect all the feelings and breathe out to throw them away - put everything scary on the back burner - because a blank expression is always easier to paint over.
If we can’t choose to be happy, we can at least choose to look it.
I drum my fingers on the counter and debate whether or not to wear my watch - to try and change again, because even with the leather jacket the hole in the sweater bothers me - then I recognize Alicia’s footsteps down the hall.
For someone so tiny she walks like an elephant in stiletto heels.
I shake my head, turning off the bathroom light, and wheel myself into the living room, within view of the front door.
I should say something polite, but for some reason I just smirk when she enters, looking at me for a moment like she thinks I might be going crazy.
“All dressed up just for a date with me?” she asks a little awkwardly, a lot hesitantly, trying fruitlessly to hide her uncomfortable smile in the dark hair slung over her left shoulder as the rest of her mane spills down her back in a curly curtain. Like it’s trying to make sure everyone knows where center stage is. As if I could look at anything BUT her.
But her posture seems to be begging me to.
I say “Yes,” without addendums of any kind, trying to figure out if I should be worried by her expression.
She did want to come on this date…not date…dinner…date?
I’ve lied ineffectively to Utkarsh so many times I can’t even remember what this was supposed to be.
But she wanted to be here, right?
“You’re wearing the pink dress I see,” I add like I can’t see her nerves, because I know that would just multiply them.
She reddens visibly, which is saying something when flushes never show as easily against her complexion as they do on mine.
What exactly is going on here, Lise?
She wore the pink dress because she knows I like…it…right?
But how could she flirt that overtly only to appear like she wants to disappear?
Is it sexist to blame it on mood swings? Who even knows.
I just know she’s definitely uncomfortable now, laughing awkwardly, “It happens to be the only nice dress I own, thanks to my impossibly poor taste…”
I sort-of-laugh out of relief as her expression seems to lighten - her smile promising that the laughter isn’t just for my benefit, but sincere.
Must be nice.
But something still says nervous - restlessness, in the way her hands fidget with the pink cloth between her fingertips.
What I wouldn’t give to be sure today’s anxiety had nothing to do with me…
Things were a lot less awkward when she was just furious at me for never having a girlfriend.
Now neither of us seems to be able to pick what annoys us the most about my state of existence.
“Did you want your medical bag…” she trails off, glancing toward the item in question. When she looks back there’s an expression in her eyes I don’t like.
Like pity.
I don’t need this, from her of all people.
I start to frown before I catch myself, making myself shrug casually.
But as she turns away quickly I suddenly have the strong desire…
I’m not exactly sure why…
…To try and pick her up off the floor.
I’m almost positive I could, even from the chair, given that she’s never surpassed even 95 pounds.
But I know better than to try for a whole slew of reasons.
I’d rather not give her more occasions to have to forgive me.
Instead, I snag hold of her sash lightly with one hand, hauling her back to her starting place, amongst an infuriated stumble that almost topples her over into my arms.
“For goodness sake!” She fumes, blushing vibrantly as she recenters her sash, glaring down at me with a vixenish mix of ire and embarrassment.
“Oh look, second time’s the charm,” I laugh so the misery of it all won’t show in my face.
That just makes her burn redder, but every trace of pity is gone as she scowls at my ‘antics.’
Because that’s infinitely easier than just asking her not to look at me that way.
“Do you need something?!” she rants, “Like a chew toy maybe?”
I say something about my phone. She storms off, complaining with real and feigned frustration.
But I’d much rather hear her muttering about my being a dirty ‘little creep’ than stand that look on her face, like I’m someone’s expensive glass toy that she shattered.
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