Georgie, All Along (25)

“Oh. Yeah, I see.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, probably while Georgie thinks about how I don’t have any sense of humor. She’s not wrong. I can tell she’s funny; I’m just not easy to laugh. Man, I need about fifteen hours of total silence to get over the last two days. Maybe I should go straight to my room once I feed Hank. I’ve got a few energy bars in my bag.

“Well, anyway,” she says, “I made dinner!”

I don’t even manage an “Oh” this time. I don’t suppose I could start my fifteen hours of silence during a dinner this woman’s cooked, but the truth is I’ll probably try.

“It’s something simple,” she adds, and I still can’t think of a thing to say. “And I mean, I was making it for myself, because obviously I eat. I wasn’t, you know, making you dinner. But I made enough dinner. If that makes sense.”

It’s not a quadratic equation, so yeah, it makes sense. But also, it sort of doesn’t, because we’ve had all of two conversations, and both of them have mostly been about how we could successfully avoid each other in a pretty small house. Now she’s made enough dinner? I don’t even want to think about what I’ll say if she’s made something I don’t eat. Probably better if I turn her down now. I don’t want to accidentally insult her cooking on account of being a vegetarian.

I clear my throat again, getting ready to say . . . something, anything, but she cuts me off.

“It’s veggie pasta, super easy. I got everything from Ernie. Also, I left him eight dollars for those milkshakes, if you ever want to collect on that debt.”

I swear she’s using the same shit on me as she used on Hank, pretending my standing here staring is the same kind of panting answers Hank gave her. She turns and goes back through the open door of the house, but she’s still talking, and because I’m no better than a dog, I follow her, Hank now on my heels.

“Ernie has this whole farmer’s market section in the back of the store; I can’t believe that! I mean, you know that already, living here and all. He used to keep Lunchables and jarred pickles in that spot! The opposite of fresh, you know what I mean? I don’t know, I may have gone overboard in there. Also, to be honest, I was maybe trying to show him I could pay for my food, after what happened yesterday . . .”

I set down my stuff and I can’t say if she went overboard at Nickel’s, but damn if she didn’t go overboard in here. The kitchen is a mess. I mean, a mess. There’s three cutting boards on the island, all of them with some kind of food waste left behind, as though she needed a whole new surface for every vegetable she chopped. Also a new knife. I don’t even own as many knives as are out on this island. Pretty good thing I didn’t walk in unexpected when this was going on, because these ones could do some damage.

She’s got three pots on the stovetop, too, spoons on the counter, a colander in the sink, spices out. This is not a clean-as-you-go type person. I take a second to breathe through the stress. It doesn’t take a whole lot of self-awareness to know I spend a lot of time alone; I’m not used to other people’s habits. Except somebody who’d destroy a kitchen for veggie pasta doesn’t seem too interested in habits. This is a chaos-only situation.

“. . . in the end I didn’t even spend a lot of time thinking about it! So this recipe is not even a recipe. I made it up, which I hope is fine?”

Chaos.

“Fine,” I say, which sounds harsher than I intend. I clear my throat. “I’ll go wash up.”

“Sure! I’ll finish this and talk to my friend here about the revenge we’re going to exact on the prom queen.”

I stare.

“The dog who bit him,” she clarifies.

I cannot imagine this woman wants any more than this one night of having to explain her jokes to me. I better renew my search for a different place to stay tomorrow.

When I duck into the bathroom to wash my hands and splash some water on my face, I can hear her in the kitchen, soft tones as she keeps on talking to Hank, his toenails tapping around as he follows her. I hope she’s not tossing him any of those tomatoes I saw on the counter, or else I’m in for a long night. Hank can’t do seeds. Still, I take more time than I have to, because it’s strangely nice to hear them in there. It shouldn’t feel normal; what would be normal is me and Hank at my place, him not having a bunch of metal holding his ear together. But this is kind of calming, somehow. Maybe it’s the rosemary smell, or maybe it’s sinking in that Hank’s all right, and at least we’ve got a place to stay tonight.

When I come out, Georgie’s setting two steaming, shallow bowls on the round table off the living room. Hank’s watching every move she makes, a line of drool coming from one side of his mouth. I gesture toward the kitchen. “I’ll get him some food first, then I’ll join you. Don’t wait.”

Hank finally remembers who I am once he hears his kibble rattling around, and he comes tapping into the kitchen, sitting down the way I always make him do before I put his bowl on the floor. Back when I first got him, I paid a truckload of money to a trainer to help me get him settled into house life, and this was one of the things we practiced a lot, mealtime manners, to make sure Hank’d never get food aggressive. When I give him the go, he tucks in, but in the way he does—real slow, almost one piece of kibble at a time. Sometimes he takes a few pieces out and puts them on the floor before he eats them, like he’s got to leave some time for anticipation, or like he’s delighting in the fact that no one’s going to take it from him. It’s strange, but it’s a habit, at least.