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My Boy Problems
At
one of our suggestions,
I think it was
Trey's, which
Joey quickly
seconded, we
decided to cook
dinner here
tonight, talk,
drink. But not
in that order.
Since Joey went
shopping, we
have ground
beef. Tons and
tons of ground
beef. Don't
ask me why.
We also have
what a regular
person might
consider an
inordinate supply
of Brie cheese.
Guess what I
cook tonight.
Joey's contribution
is a salad,
which he is
standing over,
sleeves on his
Alexander Julian
white oxford
rolled up like
a professional.
He's tossing
huge pieces
of lettuce,
halving and
quartering onions,
slicing tomatoes.
While I grill
meat and slice
Brie into wedges,
Joey stops with
the salad even
though he's
not done and
starts looking
for clean silverware.
Trey, who's
presence around
this kitchen
I am completely
aware of, is
playing Smashing
Pumpkins on
the stereo,
and he's sort
of annoying,
in a sweet way,
the way a guy
would clumsily
try to be helpful
if this were
a date and I
were cooking
dinner for him.
He must finally
realize that
he's just in
the way, after
he bumps into
me for maybe
the seventeenth
time, and Joey
just keeps singing
the Smashing
Pumpkins and
ignores him,
so he walks
out of the kitchen
into the living
room. I'm suddenly
aware of the
fact that I
haven't been
saying anything,
and I wonder
if anybody has
noticed.
"Trey,
come here, help
me open this,"
I say, flirting,
even though
there's nothing
around me that
needs to be
opened.
"That's
too weird for
me," he
says, staring
at the meat.
"Look,
Trey,"
I say, wondering
why he hasn't
put his arms
around me or
something. He
did bump into
me, but not
flirting, not
his usual way.
"What would
your contribution
to this meal
be? The great
music selections?
What?"
"Look,
I'll open the wine,"
he says, opening the door
of the refrigerator. He
pulls out a bottle of some
kind of white Gallo, actually
a jug, which Joey also picked
up today.
"That's
what you're best at,"
I say, fucking with him.
"You
should know, baby,"
he says, maybe finally catching
on.
"Why's
that?" I ask, playing
into him.
"Because
of all of the millions of
nights I've gotten you drunk
off Gallo," he says.
This triggers a flashback,
which starts with him naked,
sucking my neck, and then
fades at that point, doesn't
continue.
The
Smashing Pumpkins, which
I guess was a tape ends,
Tom Cochrane singing "Life
is a Highway" comes
on, a cool song, and Joey
starts grooving, finally
finished with the salad,
I guess.
"Are
you done yet?" he says,
causing me to look down
at a hamburger, very cooked,
turning black on the bottom.
"Yeah,
I guess."
At
the table Trey set—he even
lit some of my candles—he
insults the hamburgers.
"Jesus,
Julianne," he says.
"What?"
Joey and I ask at the same
time.
"You
redefine the term 'well
done.'"
"What
is that supposed to mean?"
I ask, curious, insulted,
sort of.
"You've
grilled the life out of
this," he tells me.
"Great.
Thanks," I say, turning
to Joey, "is yours
horrible?"
"No,"
he says, which only makes
Trey look like an asshole.
"It's actually pretty
good."
"Just
drink some more of this
wine," Trey says, refilling
my glass.
Feeling
sort of buzzed I tell Trey,
"You drank like half
the bottle."
"So
what? I had to wash this
shit down with something."
"You're
so fucking critical of everything
I do, aren't you?"
"Just
cause a girl can fuck doesn't
mean a guy should let her
cook his dinner, you know
what I'm saying?" Trey
says.
Joey
almost starts laughing,
but, fortunately suppresses
it on my behalf. He quickly
says, "That was pretty
uncalled for, don't you
think?"
.....
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