Page 31 of Let's Talk About Love
(Pad Thai was worth six packages of ramen.)
The trouble was, one box equaled two serving sizes. The Food and Drug Administration didn’t know what they were talking about—one box equaled one Alice portion. Unfortunately, this sent her straight to Carb Coma City. And with the week she’d had, she needed it. Being around Takumi began to border on insufferable territory.
The counseling appointment had ripped a wound inside her that refused to heal. And Takumi wouldn’t stop irritating the hell out of her like a man-size saltshaker. Feenie’s guidance, Essie’s raised eyebrow suggestions, Takumiexisting, her own body’s refusal to get its shit together—all of it was the tiniest bit thrilling… at first. Now? She wanted to duct-tape him to a chair, cover his mouth with a shippinglabel, and trap him in the elevator so she wouldn’t have to deal with any of it anymore.
Pulling out a chair, she dropped the carton on the table and retrieved her book from her bag.
“You changed your hair,” Takumi said, standing near her table.
“Yes. I do that often.” The more stressed out she got, the more likely it’d be she would forget to take proper care of her hair, so until she sorted through all this emotional crap, a protective style would be her best friend. Fueled by pure spite, the thick, waist-length braids took two and a half hours to finish, instead of her usual four hours. “Anyway, it hasn’t changed since the last time you saw me and you just got back from break. Why are you here?”
“To see you.” He sat down. “I wanted to compliment you earlier but you seemed mad. It looks nice.”
Her right eye twitched.
They’d been placed on basement duty again. Takumi for half the Saturday until his Storytime shifts started, in which Alice would then be left alone. To be consumed by spiders. Or possessed.
Whichever came first.
She pasted a smile on her face, and said in her sweetest voice, “Go back to work.”
Takumi hesitated. “What are you reading?”
Alice held up the book for him to see the front cover.
“What’s it about?”
She rotated the book for him to read the back.
“Is it any good?”
“No,” she answered, placing it in front of her.
“Then why read it?”
“I finish what I start.” Her Netflix history could attest to that.
“That’s admirable,” he said.
“More like compulsive.” She turned her head toward him. Was it possible to marry regret? She sure spent enough time with it. No one should be allowed to look as amazing as he did. Did his parents sell their souls so he’d win the genetic lottery?
He nodded at her processed lunch for one. “You don’t know how to cook?”
“Why?” She made a mental note (for the thousandth time) to stop looking at his face.
“You’re always eating crap. Have you ever tried it?”
“What? Cooking?”
She had given up trying to learn when she created a gaping hole in her thumb knuckle on a cheese grater.
The week before that, she had sliced a quarter-of-an-inch-deep cut into her index finger pad trying to open a bag of rice with a serrated blade.
Two accidents, both drawing copious amounts of blood, were more than enough to deem the kitchen far too dangerous for her. Microwavable processed meals were much safer, and, on occasion, even tastier. Sure, she had to chug liters of water a day to combat all the sodium she’d ingested, but she’d rather be bloated than accidentally dismember herself next time she tried to chop a tomato.
“Yeah. If you need help, maybe I could give you lessons.”
(The Joy of Cooking, indeed.)
