Page 73 of The Rom-Commers

A pause.

“I also have cereal, if you want some,” Charlie offered, nodding toward a small pantry in the corner.

“You don’t have milk, though,” I said, checking the fridge again. “What do you put on it?”

“Water,” Charlie said. Like that made any sense.

I tilted my head. And then, trying to sound like his luncheon-meats-based lifestyle was just as valid as any other, I asked, “Do you mind if I—get some other foods?”

“Not at all,” Charlie said.

“I cook a lot at home…” I said then, still trying to normalize it.

Charlie nodded.

“So I’ll probably make dinner for myself in the evenings.”

Charlie shrugged, like that was reasonable.

“And I’m happy to share,” I added. “Unless you prefer—your… piles of meat.”

And so that became another part of the routine—I started making dinner every night. And every night, Charlie hovered around, watching me, likea person making dinnerwas a total novelty. And he’d act all skeptical, adding commentary like “Don’t cut yourself,” and “I threw up after eating parsley once,” and “Are you crying right now, or is that just the onions?”

Then, when the food was actually ready, he’d set two places at the kitchen table by the window, and fill up glasses of ice water, and say yes to everything I offered, and then chow down—making little happy noises as he chewed and swallowed and served himself seconds—like a person who…

Well, like a person who’d forgotten about the joy of the old-timey human ritual ofdinner.

“You’re an amazing cook!” Charlie would exclaim while chewing, over and over, like he just couldn’t believe it.

It felt good to amaze him.

It felt good to do something that was soappreciated. My dad and Sylvie appreciated me, of course, and we all agreed that I could cook. But they were too used to me by now. The thrill was gone.

For Charlie, every bite was a novelty. Brand-new, and astonishing, and pure, gustatory bliss.

He took to accompanying me to the grocery store in the evenings, helping me find the things the recipes needed. And also purchasing little culinary delights for Cuthbert, like butter lettuce and bell peppers, to supplement his hay and pea pellets.

This Charlie was so different from the Charlie who I’d met on the first day—the one who’d so dismissively called me an amateur.

This Charlie was helpful. And eager. And grateful. And just—fun to pal around with. It got me thinking about how nice it was to do an ordinary thing like go to the market with someone and buy food for a meal you were about to eat together. The companionship and pleasant anticipation. The easy camaraderie. The incidental conversations about anything and nothing: songs on the speaker system, or the psychology of wine labels, or the social significance of Twinkies.

And can I just add? While I got dinner started, Charlie applied himself lovably and earnestly to the eternal project of trying to get Cuthbert to eat something.

Easier said than done. “He’s off his food since losing his brother,” Charlie explained early on. “Guinea pigs are very sensitive.”

I looked at Cuthbert, perched under that unruly mop of fur like someone had dropped a toupee on him.

“He seems okay to me,” I said.

“He should be devouring this bell pepper,” Charlie said, and then we’d both look at the hunk of bell pepper sitting untouched in front of Cuthbert’s nose.

And then I’d casually glance over time and again to see Charlie cutting the bell pepper into a star shape, playing Pachelbel’s Canon through his phone speaker to get Cuthbert into an eating mood, and changing out plates because apparently the texture of Limoges versus Fiestaware can impact a guinea pig’s gustatory experience.

“Sensitive” didn’t start to cover it.

Sometimes I’d eavesdrop on their conversations. “I know you miss him, buddy,” Charlie would say. “It’s hard. I get it.”

On a really bad day, Charlie might slice a carrot into thin sheets on a mandoline and form it into an origami-style carrot flower. Or hum “Bohemian Rhapsody” a cappella while he waited for the nibbling to start. Or both.

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