I push a challenging glare her way, reminding her she shouldn’t be anywhere near me right now.
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine here. I think it’s the man-flu bringing you down, not the chest infection or cold or whatever else you have.Anyway, try this before it gets cold.” Dollie is the first to take the spoon to her lips, and the look on her face tells me it doesn’t taste like the stew Dad used to make.
“Okay. Maybe don’t taste it. It’s awful.” She stills, and worry claims her features. “Are my cakes this bad?”
I take a sip of the soup, and I’m unable to confirm or deny if it’s awful because my taste buds have decided to go rogue and ignore all the flavors in my mouth.
I email another quick message, and her phone vibrates on the table.
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
When you feel better, make me a cake and I’ll let you know.
She glances at her phone to read my message.
“Well, it is your birthday soon.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I don’t celebrate.
You know that.
“You can still have a cake.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
Okay. But only to prove to you they taste great.
I put my phone in my lap to take another spoonful of stew. Still can’t taste it, but the potatoes melt in my mouth, and potatoes aren’t meant to do that.
I bring my phone back to my hand and message her again, because I just can’t resist.
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
When I’m feeling better, I’ll also help you by teaching you how to cook potatoes.
“What makes you think you’re better than me? When have you ever had to cook for yourself?”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
Uh, every day since I got home, actually.
But I learned in prison.
“You did?”
I nod, unable to message while I finish the meal before her. Good or bad, I don’t set down my bowl until it’s three-quarters empty because I appreciate her effort.
As soon as I’m done, she pushes away her bowl, too.
The wind behind her pounds at the windows, and she jumps as a garden gnome face plants the glass.
“What was that?” Rushing to her feet, she pants out the words.
Stepping back, she catches her leg on the table and winces.
The buzzing of her phone scares her, too. Her eyes move to the table where she left it to see me tell her that a garden gnome is as fucked off with his life as I am and wanted to end it, and that, judging by the crack, he might have done a better job than I do every time I cut my arms.
