Page 45 of Red Flag, Green Light

He reaches for my doorknob and casually pushes.

I skid across my floor in my socks as he steps up into my house, closing the distance between us, and looks down at me. A chill works its way into the air as his smile goes frigid and his eyes tilt up like slivers of crescent moons. “You took my key away.”

That I did.

I cut my attention to the table by the door, where my spare key now lives. I figured I don’t really leave my house enough to justify having a spare outside all the time. So I confiscated it.

Probably should have confiscated it thennotopened the door for him. Opening up implies that I’m glad to see him orsomething. Maybe even that I’ve missed him over the course of these past few weeks. Silly me.

Oh well. Here we go again, I guess.

Releasing the doorknob, I take a committed step back, clear my throat, and turn toward my kitchen. “Can I get you some lemonade?”

“Are you already out of the orange juice we stocked up on together?” The latch clicks as he closes my front door, trapping us both in here together. “I’ve not had breakfast yet, and orange juice goes better with breakfast than lemonade.” His confident strides take him past me, to my kitchen, and to my cabinets. He retrieves a frying pan while I linger beneath the arching entrance. Smiling as he twirls the handle, he says, “Sit. How do you like your eggs?”

Crossing the linoleum, I ease into a seat at my kitchen table and eye my neighbor. “Where were you last week when we were supposed to have our check in?”

“Busy.”

Busy committing crimes, I bet.

“Ceres, eggs?” He puts my frying pan on the stove and retrieves a rubber spoontula from my utensil drawer.

“Why do you know your way around my kitchen?”

“Why won’t you tell me how you like your eggs?”

I cross my arms, petulant. He thinks he can just stomp into my life four days in a row, then abandon me because he’s “busy,” then jump right back in and start making demands? Absolutely he may not. “My eggs arerationed. I do not eat them for breakfast. If I were to, I’d run out before my next shopping day.”

Mars sends a look over his shoulder, locks eyes with me, and opens my fridge. He proceeds to crack every last one of my eggs into a buttered frying pan while I watch, horrified. “I like scrambled,” he says, tossing the carton perfectly across my kitchen and into the trash.

Meal plan meals evaporate before my very eyes.

“How’s progress going with the festival?” He pushes the eggs around. “Months ahead yet?”

Mouth dry, I say, “What? No. I’m on schedule.” On schedule becausethisweek’s task involvestalkingto someone. Outside my house. In person. I’ve been squarely living in the delusion that the bike shop in town might develop a website before, well, today.

It has not.

As you can imagine, my devastation is incomprehensible.

“Why, if I may ask, have you decided there’s going to be a charity bikeathon all over town during your festival?” And, follow up, why have you decided it’s perfectly normal to help yourself to my kitchen, use all my eggs, and just generally ruin my life?

“You’re going to order bike flags for everyone.”

“I saw that, yes. But. Still.”

“It’s for a good cause.” He salts the eggs.

I will admit, it is for a good cause. He’s picked an excellent charity that focuses on ocean safety, protection, and awareness. Good cause or not, I fear we’ve lost the plot entirely. “Bike flags have nothing to do with Flag Day. The ones you want me to get aren’t even American flags. They’re red.”

“Red flags are still the best ones, Ceres.”

I agree, but. Still. There’s a difference between “focusing” on this “romantic” side of Flag Day, which doesn’t actually exist, and removing the origin story altogether. Why, at this point, you might as well just call us the papacy.

After tossing the eggs a final time, Mars pulls the pan off the heat and retrieves bread from my freezer. “How many slices of toast would you like?”

“The bread is for sandwiches,” I say.

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