I put a cast-iron pan on the stove and turn the heat almost all the way up.
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I'm talking about sex-u-al tension!” she stage whispers, a little bit too loudly for me. I shoot her a venomous glare.
“You keep your voice down!”
“Whatever. Maybe you better keep your super sexy kitten voice down, Dahlia!” she smirks.
I want to object, but my heart is still beating way too fast. I stare at the surface of the pan as it heats up, just imagining all those molecules getting excited. Vibrating.
“Oh, yeah… you know what I am talking about,” she keeps going. “You can try to deny it all you want, but you are still hot for that man.”
“I am not!” I hiss. “And keep your voice down, I mean it! You're talking crazy!”
“Isn’t there some new guy at work? I told Tommy to give you a call too.”
“Jesus, don’t do that. I don’t want to talk to Tommy.”
“But he’s cuuuute!” she complains, drawing the word out until it gets weird. “And you need to get serious about somebody, Dahlia. Or, even not serious. You just need to get with somebody.”
“I don’t need any such thing,” I shoot back. “I am fine.”
“You’re gorgeous!” she declares, winking. “But that’s not the point. You need to find you an IRL boyfriend so you can have IRL sexitimes like a normal person.”
“You can’t rush that sort of thing,” I mutter.
“Sure you can,” she chuckles. “But that is also not the point. The point is that they’re available and possible, not just inappropriate obsessions you build up in your mind. Know what I mean? Hm?”
Opening cabinets, I force myself to read the descriptions on the side of the boxes so I won’t bite her head off. Rice a Roni. Cous cous. Bunny should stay out of my damn business.
She resumes cutting vegetables, rolling her eyes and raising her eyebrows sarcastically. “I don't even blame you. He is a seriously hot piece of ass. He's got that most interesting man in the world thing going on.”
“Bunny, quit it.”
“He's all handsome... educated… and he’s got those lumberjack muscles. You think he works out? I bet he has to work out for his job. He probably has to do lots of sweaty, sweaty workouts…”
“Bunny!”
“Not to mention that sexy widow thing.”
I whirl around to look at her, forgetting about the pan for just a second.
“Exactly what does that mean?”
She glances up at me, her expression changing from playful to horrified instantly.
“Oh… I didn't mean anything by that! I was just saying, you know… like, widows are all wounded and sweet. Like used teddy bears. Not like divorced guys who probably cheated on their wives or couldn't hold a job or whatever.”
“You're telling me that widows ar
e wounded? And sweet? Seriously?”
She pulls a face, flaring her nostrils for a second. She knows that my dad met August in a widow support group shortly after my mom died. August’s wife had been taken in a car accident just a few months before my mom succumbed to pancreatic cancer.
“You know what? I'd like to retract that part.”
“Which part? The sexy part?”