“You just rest, I’ll start some
soup and some tea,” Kate called out as she walked into the kitchen. Her casual
call to her best friend Emily had turned into a “rescue mission” when she
realized Em was sick at home with no food and no one around to help out. Kate
had made a grocery run, including some fresh flowers to brighten up Em’s
bedroom, deli chicken soup, and chamomile tea. She couldn’t stand the stuff,
but Emily loved it, and Kate knew she would appreciate it.
She’d used her own key to let
herself into Emily’s apartment, and good thing, because her friend was flat out
in bed, spiking a temp and hardly able to lift her head when Kate walked in
with the flowers. She had rummaged around the bathroom cabinet and found a thermometer.
“102. Okay, you don’t have to go
to the hospital. Here, drink this whole bottle of water. I’m standing here
until you do,” she had glowered at her friend, correctly surmising she had not
been drinking enough water the past couple of days.
“You’re such a martinet,” Emily
grumbled, gulping the water greedily.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you
over the sound of taking care of your sorry self,” Kate replied with a
dismissive wave of her hand. Bottle
empty, she carried it out to the kitchen for a refill, then returned to fix the
promised soup and tea.
She admired Emily’s clean kitchen
– not even dirty dishes in the sink – and chuckled over the labels on the
cabinets. She had helped Emily put those up when she moved in two years ago.
“So you don’t have to open five cabinets until you remember where the mugs
are,” she had teased as she tapped out labels on the labeler.
She filled Emily’s teapot, shaking
her head in bemusement. An actual teapot. Honestly, the girl didn’t even own a
microwave. “Bad energy doesn’t belong in our food,” Emily would intone with
mock pomposity. But seriously. No microwave. Kate sighed, pulling out a pot to
reheat the soup on the stovetop. She poured the soup in and thought she would
add some of Emily’s favorite spices: curry and coriander.
She opened the cabinet labeled “Baking | Spices”, and the Pillsbury Dough Boy looked up from his magazine and waved to her. She closed the door.
She wasn’t conscious of moving,
but she must have walked back to Emily’s room, because she stood in the doorway
and said, “What. Was. That?”
Emily looked up at the tone in her
voice. “What was what? What’s wrong?”
“What is in your cabinet?”
Emily frowned and thought for a
moment, then her face brightened. “Oh, you must mean the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”
“No shit, Sherlock. What. Is. It.
Doing. There?”
“Honestly, Kate, he lives there.
Couldn’t you tell?”
Kate felt like she had walked into
a Twilight Zone episode. She shook her head at Emily’s nonsensical responses
and walked back into the kitchen. She stood in front of the cabinet for a
moment, then opened it slowly. Yes, he was still sitting there, perched on a
sideways Jiffy’s Corn Muffin Mix box, resting his feet on a stack of chocolate
and banana pudding mixes. She stared. He lifted his eyes over the top of his
magazine, looked back at it, then signed and closed it.
“Hi,” he said.
“I…I can’t believe it!
You’re…you’re really the—”
“Pillsbury Dough Boy. Yeah, yeah,
kid. You got a name? Did you move in? Is Emily gone?”
Kate opened her mouth and closed
it again.
“Look, kid, I understand. This
seems to be hard for people to accept. Want to close the cabinet and get back
to me when you’re ready to talk? I’m not going anywhere for awhile…”
Kate nodded and slowly closed the
cabinet door. She opened it again and peeked in. He was settling back onto the
boxes, opening his magazine. He looked up, irritation peeking through the smile
pasted on his face.
“Do you mind? Or, are you all
ready to talk?”
Kate shook her head and closed the
door…
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Dogs in house
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Houdini, Brindle
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Music:
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Daughter’s piano lesson
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Time writing:
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40 minutes
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July word
count:
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4,261
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