Blue, a little like a two dollar ho, and still shaken from last night’s attack.
My unique rendition of Ginuwine’s Pony should do the trick. When I say unique, I mean I can’t hold a tune to save my life. But I like to sing. So f**k everything that doesn’t make you happy. I’m going to sing my out-of-tune ass off.
Wrapping a robe around me and making my hair into a towel turban, I walk right down the hall and into the lounge-slash-kitchen to find Dave sitting slumped on the sofa staring into nothingness, while Nikki has a one-sided conversation with him from the kitchen. He hasn’t shaven for at least two days, and his eyes are bloodshot, a dead giveaway of just how much this break is affecting him. He takes a swig from the sparkling wine he holds in his hand.
Poor baby.
Without a word, I walk over to him, take the sparkling wine from his hand, place it on the coffee table, and climb into his lap. Sitting with my legs draped across his lap, I wrap my arms around him and pull his head into the crook of my neck.
No one gets Dave like I do. I know this because he tells me. I also know this because Dave talks to me. He tells me things he freely admits no one else knows. I am his confessional. And he is my therapy.
We have a strange, yet completely functional relationship.
I love him as if he were my brother. I wish he were my brother. The one God gifted me I left behind a long time ago. And he was a good brother. The type of brother a sister would be proud of.
I remember as a kid that he would always put me first. He would give me the bigger half of our split chocolate bars. He would never let anyone pick on me. He would tell me the best and scariest stories. He made time for me. And I miss him.
I know Dave needs affection. He needs affection like I do. We’re affection-whores. But we’d never admit it to anyone. Our hard shells protect our soft interiors.
Dave sniffles. I feel wetness run down my neck. I let him silently pour out his sorrow. After a few minutes and no more tears, I whisper into his ear, “Want a cocoa à la Lexi?”
Nodding into my neck, I feel his smile on my collarbone and I smile to myself. He’s sad, but not broken. We can fix this.
Cocoa à la Lexi is a fancy way of saying cocoa laced with hard liquor. It’s my specialty. And I know how Dave likes it.
Lots of chocolate. Lots of cinnamon. Lots of booze.
Standing, I walk over to Nikki in the kitchen and pull out a pan to warm the milk. The kitchen timer dings, and smiling, she pulls open the oven door and the smell hits me like a brick to the nose. Turning to her, I gasp, then whisper wide-eyed, “Double choc, peanut butter niknaks?”
Laughing through her nose, she places the brownie tray on the kitchen counter and scoffs, “Well, duh! I think this occasion called for it. Don’t you?”
Let’s get something straight.
There is no occasion in the history of man that doesn’t call for double choc, peanut butter niknaks.
Christening, bar mitzvah, wedding, funeral, Ramadan, the coming of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, AA meeting, the resurrection of Jesus, G8 summit, family reunion… these brownies would be welcome at any of the above. And I make it my business to invent occasions to enjoy these babies because Nikki is a hard nut to crack. When I say that, I mean the bitch is mean! She can be a softie, but not when it comes to double choc, peanut butter niknaks.
She does not make these brownies willy-nilly.
Watching me watch her niknaks like a fox watching a chicken out of the safety of its coop, she clears her throat. When I look up at her, she motions to the pan in my hand.
Right! Cocoa à la Lexi! Coming right up.
Maybe tonight won’t be as hard as I thought it would be. That is, until Nikki’s brow furrows and she steps closer to me with a scrutinizing eye. Reaching up, she touches my cheek, then my lip with a gentle touch and mutters, “Babe?”
Shit, f**k, crap!
My face flames and she steps back to search my face. Turning her head to check on Dave, she pulls me into the corner of the kitchen and whisper-hisses, “Talk.”
So starts Whisperfest 2014.
“It’s nothing. I swear. Don’t make a big deal. I don’t want Dave to freak out.”
She whispers back heatedly, “If you don’t want me to say anything, I suggest you tell me what happened so there will be less freakage on my part, and I won’t need to alarm our sweet-yet-sad David.”
Slapping her shoulder, I hiss out, “Shhhh! He’ll hear you!” Not having taken an inch of my dramatics, she glares at me while tapping her foot. And I cave. “Okay, so you have to promise not to freak out.”
But as soon as I say that – of course – she freaks out. Wide-eyed, she steps back and whisper-shouts, “Who did this to you? Was it George? It was George, wasn’t it? I told you I didn’t want you living next to an unstable dude!”
George, my bipolar neighbor, would never lay a hand on me. The guy loves me! Being a caseworker, the first time we spoke, I picked up on his behavior right away. I’m sure he wasn’t used to what he got from me.
A hug.
I told George that I worked with a lot of people who suffered mental illness, and that if he felt a panic attack coming on that I would be there for him; all he needed to do was call. Which he has done. And I’ve always been there to help talk him down and soothe him from the overwhelming state he finds himself in. He has never – I repeat – never been violent towards me. So I’m a little pissed at Nikki right now.
I glower at her, “Don’t you do that, Nikki! That’s not cool, babe.”
“Do what?” she responds, exasperated.
Staring her down a moment, I state, “Stereotype.”
Brows rising, she whispers, “Holy shit. I totally did, didn’t I?” Taking a step away from me, her brows bunch. She’s obviously upset with herself. And now I feel like shit.
Taking her hand, I sigh, “Babe, I’ll explain everything later, I promise. But right now, I’ve got cocoa to make, you’ve got niknaks to slice, and we’ve got to come up with a way for Dave to make this right with Phil.” Gesturing to my face, I tell her, “This…is not a priority right now.”
Her eyes search my face, and I add, “Do I look like a withering mess right now?”
Rolling her eyes, she responds sullenly, “Well, no.”
Nodding, I agree, “Exactly, Nikki. Priorities.” She throws me a curt nod. I feel the need to add quietly, “Because what I’ve got to tell you…it’s not pretty.”