Page 45 of Nacho Boyfriend

IGNACIO

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Olive’s apartment is an insanely small upstairs studio unit in West Hollywood. The house seems to be almost a century old, built originally as a single family home, divided into a fourplex at one point. It’s old but quaint, I suppose. The landscaping is well maintained and a spiral staircase leads upstairs to Olive’s sunny front patio. Her landing, about three square feet, is covered in flower pots and colorful fairy gardens. There are at least five plaster gnomes of different sizes keeping guard, and two on either side of the door. It’s absolutely cluttered and hodgepodge to the point where there’s hardly a path to walk. But it’s cheery and bright… and so Olive.

She answers the door in a frantic rush, her hair in a bun poking upward in the shape of a cone from on top of her head.

“Ack. You’re early.”

I check my smartwatch. “Only five minutes.”

“Come in, I’ll just be a sec.”

I step inside. The place is small, but clean. It’s basically a single room with an Ikea cube shelf unit to separate the living area from the sleeping area. The kitchen comprises a tiny electric stove and a one-basin sink, all tucked in one corner.

Olive shrugs with that adorable smile-grimace of hers. “It’s not much, but it’s mine. Well, not mine, mine. I don’t own it. I rent from a sweet old man who’s just the best. He’s a veteran and has five grandchildren. But he doesn’t see them all that often. So I bake him banana bread or cookies and told him he can visit for coffee when he comes to collect the rent. He hasn’t taken me up on that yet. He tells me the hardwood floors are new because of a pipe leak last year, so that’s good. And it came fully furnished. The shelf and everything.”

“That’s all very fascinating, but weren’t you…”

I wave my hand in her general direction. I’m guessing she was about to style her hair—or whatever women do to get ready. Will she wear her Crocs today?

“Oh, yeah. I just need to slip outta my pajamas.”

Her pajamas have the pattern of little dogs in Santa hats adorned all over the pants and cami tank top. Conscious of my gaze on her, she crosses her arms over her chest.

“I forgot I’m not wearing a bra. I’ll be right back.”

Heaven help me.

She disappears into the bathroom—the only private space inside this apartment. Finding myself uncommonly fidgety, I pace through the apartment, examining the almost non-existent kitchen and her poor excuse for cooking utensils. Then over to the cube shelf, where she has small plants, books, and… a LOT of gnomes.

“You know, I’m actually really excited for today,” she says through the paper thin bathroom door. “I’m not really into shopping, but I haven’t seen much of L.A. since I moved here.”

“Oh, really?” I say absently, because I’m taken aback by the amount of Christmas decorations she has. Mostly gnome statues, their creepy, jolly faces smiling into the middle distance. The plush gnomes, which are slightly larger, don’t have visible faces—just enormous hats tucked down over their eyes right above large, round noses, where white Gandalf beards take over the rest of the face and body. Some gnomes have hats with holly. Others have hats with stripes… or red plaid. Some have hats that look like ugly Christmas sweaters. And she doesn’t just have Christmas gnomes. Oh no. There are gnomes for every occasion.

Looking around the room, I notice the throw pillows, the string lights hanging over the window, the actual plastic Christmas tree, all eighteen inches of it on top of a side table. I’m a little bit horrified and slightly amused.

“I’m ready.”

Olive emerges, wearing the same exact clothes. The only difference is her hair, which cascades over her shoulders in rich, brown waves. And she’s wearing her Crocs.

I blink a few times and can’t help but ask, “Didn’t you say those were… pajamas?”

He glances down over her body. “No, silly. My pajamas had beagles in Santa hats. These…” she slaps her thigh, “are corgis.”

“Olive, there is absolutely no difference between your pajamas and your street clothes. Long, cotton Christmas pants and a tank top.” I realize here that the tank top is solid white, not patterned with dogs. But it’s still basically the same outfit. At least she’s wearing a bra now.

“It’s very different,” she says. “The pajama pants are softer and thicker.”

“And what about all this?” I say, gesturing toward the shelf and the rest of the decorations. Do we need to have an intervention? It looks like Christmas exploded all over your apartment.”

She grins brightly. “Isn’t it great? I got a lot of it at a garage sale for twenty bucks. They were practically giving it away.”

“Are you sure you’re Jewish?”

“Yes.”

I look around, dumfounded. I’m at a loss for words.

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