DoriNYC:
Hard limit: strollers in bars.
Me:
Hard limit: Leaving one slice of cheese on the plate.
I was growing. Changing. Learning how to communicate in a way that felt fun and flirty andgood.
Meanwhile, Ophelia had picked up a show. Off,offBroadway, but I was insanely proud of her. When she wasn’t busting her ass at rehearsal, we decompressed together, curled up on the couch with a too-large bowl of microwave popcorn, re-watching comfort movies.
“Okay, sexy Jeff Goldblum or nerdy Jeff Goldblum?” Ophelia asked. Spud snored loudly between us as she scrolled through the options on the TV.
“I feel like you just said the same thing twice.” I popped a kernel of popcorn in my mouth.
“I’ll rephrase. Dinosaurs or giant bugs?”
“Dinosaurs. Definitely.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I shifted on the couch to check it.
DoriNYC:
Hard limit: Chinese takeout with no duck sauce.
I felt a grin crawling up my lips.
Me:
Rookie mistake. You need a sauce drawer.
DoriNYC:
I’m afraid to ask.
DoriNYC:
A sauce drawer.
Me:
I said what I said.
DoriNYC:
As in a drawer for sauce?
Me:
Hold please.
I set the bowl of popcorn down, got up, and moved into the kitchen. I pulled out a drawer that was filled with extra sauce packets—ketchup, mustard, soy sauce, hot sauce, orange sauce, duck sauce. You name it, we had it.
I lifted my phone and snapped a picture.
“What’re you doing?” Ophelia asked from underneath the blanket-pile.
“Taking a picture of our sauce drawer for Dorian.”
