Nikki makes a noise of uncertainty in the back of her throat and whispers, “Well, no. Not really. But that’s how Dave saw it.” Gah! Dave is emotional at the best of times. Nikki sighs, “Told Phil to pack his shit and leave. So Phil did. And Dave sat back and watched. Now Dave is sad.”
Her short and sweet explanation of the events suddenly makes sense. Dave can be a diva at times. I confirm, “Dave wanted to take it back, but he didn’t, right? His fierce male pride got in the way and now he regrets it, leaving us with a whiny, emotional queen of a man who will likely be drunk by the time I exit the shower, yeah?”
Amusement lines Nikki’s voice as she responds, “Bingo bongo, baby. Hit that nail right on the head.” Her voice turns awe-filled. “You’re so good at reading between the lines!”
I bark out a laugh. “Nikki, do you know what I do for a living? I get lied to on a daily basis! Those kids…they’re smart as hell. They know what you want to hear and try hard as anything to get my sniffer dog ass off their scent so they can live happily uneducated and unsupervised on the streets. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to read between the lines.”
But I have to.
The squeak of the laundry basket tells me Nikki is now standing. “I know, babe. But you’re good at it. And those kids might not think it now, but they’re lucky to have you. And I’m proud of you.” My heart swells and I smile. I really love this lady. “Now, hurry the hell up so we can supervise our very own street rat tonight.”
She leaves me to condition my hair in peace and my mind drifts back to the previous night. Before I allow myself to go there, I burst into song to distract myself. Well, that, and to distract my friends from the fact that I’m feeling down.
Blue, a little like a two dollar ho, and still shaken from last night’s attack.
My unique rendition of Ginuwine’s Pony should do the trick. When I say unique, I mean I can’t hold a tune to save my life. But I like to sing. So fuck everything that doesn’t make you happy. I’m going to sing my out-of-tune ass off.
Wrapping a robe around me and making my hair into a towel turban, I walk right down the hall and into the lounge-slash-kitchen to find Dave sitting slumped on the sofa staring into nothingness, while Nikki has a one-sided conversation with him from the kitchen. He hasn’t shaven for at least two days, and his eyes are bloodshot, a dead giveaway of just how much this break is affecting him. He takes a swig from the sparkling wine he holds in his hand.
Poor baby.
Without a word, I walk over to him, take the sparkling wine from his hand, place it on the coffee table, and climb into his lap. Sitting with my legs draped across his lap, I wrap my arms around him and pull his head into the crook of my neck.
No one gets Dave like I do. I know this because he tells me. I also know this because Dave talks to me. He tells me things he freely admits no one else knows. I am his confessional. And he is my therapy.
We have a strange, yet completely functional relationship.
I love him as if he were my brother. I wish he were my brother. The one God gifted me I left behind a long time ago. And he was a good brother. The type of brother a sister would be proud of.
I remember as a kid that he would always put me first. He would give me the bigger half of our split chocolate bars. He would never let anyone pick on me. He would tell me the best and scariest stories. He made time for me. And I miss him.
I know Dave needs affection. He needs affection like I do. We’re affection-whores. But we’d never admit it to anyone. Our hard shells protect our soft interiors.
Dave sniffles. I feel wetness run down my neck. I let him silently pour out his sorrow. After a few minutes and no more tears, I whisper into his ear, “Want a cocoa à la Lexi?”
Nodding into my neck, I feel his smile on my collarbone and I smile to myself. He’s sad, but not broken. We can fix this.
Cocoa à la Lexi is a fancy way of saying cocoa laced with hard liquor. It’s my specialty. And I know how Dave likes it.
Lots of chocolate. Lots of cinnamon. Lots of booze.
Standing, I walk over to Nikki in the kitchen and pull out a pan to warm the milk. The kitchen timer dings, and smiling, she pulls open the oven door and the smell hits me like a brick to the nose. Turning to her, I gasp, then whisper wide-eyed, “Double choc, peanut butter niknaks?”
Laughing through her nose, she places the brownie tray on the kitchen counter and scoffs, “Well, duh! I think this occasion called for it. Don’t you?”
Let’s get something straight.
There is no occasion in the history of man that doesn’t call for double choc, peanut butter niknaks.
Christening, bar mitzvah, wedding, funeral, Ramadan, the coming of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, AA meeting, the resurrection of Jesus, G8 summit, family reunion… these brownies would be welcome at any of the above. And I make it my business to invent occasions to enjoy these babies because Nikki is a hard nut to crack. When I say that, I mean the bitch is mean! She can be a softie, but not when it comes to double choc, peanut butter niknaks.