She stands then and pushes her hair back from her face. The fun from the night has left her, and she looks tired now. Too sober. Worried about her friend.
I want to take it all away from her.
“Thanks for helping,” she says. “Seriously. It takes a man with an iron stomach to clean up the vomit of a woman he barely knows.”
“She means a lot to you, so she means a lot to me.”
Dove stares at me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to piece together. I see her considering her next move, and then she asks: “Do you want something to drink?”
“No.”
Those green eyes look up at me. “Whatdoyou want?”
“I want to take over your kitchen.”
I make us a 2 am dinner. She has a round, cheap table in the kitchen with two bright orange chairs. I set the plates down on the table and Dove lights up when she sees what’s on the menu. Grilled cheese sandwiches with a huge heaping of pickles on her plate.
“Extra crispy, extra pickles,” I tell her.
“You’re a good listener,” she says. She’s all smiles, pleased.
“Only the important things.”
Or: any time Dove opens her mouth.
I sit across from her and we both dig in. My stomach pinches at the smell of cheese on toasted bread. This is exactly what my body needs right now, and I wolf down half of the sandwich.
Dove lifts a half, gesticulating. “If I could live off of one cheese the rest of my life, it would be gruyere. Underrated. Well, no. Maybe cheddar. I know that’s a basic answer, but it’s so good.”
“Nothing wrong with basic.” I could listen to her talk about cheese for days.
Her eyes connect with mine. Those emeralds glitter. With food in our bellies, we’ve both woken up. “Tonight was…pretty insane.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
She scrunches her face. She’s fucking adorable. “Both?”
My eyes drift. The walls are covered with vibrant images—portraits of women with cartoonish creatures crawling all over them. “I like your wallpaper.”
A light blush tinges her cheeks. “Oh—yeah. Those are my scribbles.”
“You did those?”
“Yeah…I…I don’t know. It’s weird. I started painting on the walls and kinda couldn’t stop. Ophelia likes it, which is good. I went on this kick of woman vs. monster. I liked the idea of creating visual images of these fears and anxieties we have constantly looming over our shoulders…these nagging voices in our head.You’re too old, you should smile more, your dreams don’t matter.Our everyday monsters.”
“It’s powerful.”
“Thanks.” She stares at her work, her eyes unfocused. “I’ve had a hard time working on canvases ever since the breakup. I needed…I don’t know…”
“A canvas that could take a beating.”
A half-grin slides up her mouth. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Silence drifts between us. Not uncomfortable. Soft, thoughtful silence.
She’s opened the door, so I walk through it. I ask her, “How did you feel about seeing Shawn tonight?”
Her chewing slows. I can see the wheels in her brain turning as she contemplates her answer. “It was…strange. I don’t think I’ve processed it completely, to be honest.”
