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Quinn Cooper:
If I got on my knees again, pretty sure I’d be the one in charge.
Rick?
Erik?
Erik Varg:
Sorry. You need to warn a guy before sending visuals like that.
Quinn Cooper:
Lol. You make it sound like I sent you photos of my kitty.
Erik Varg:
Don’t say things like that either.
Quinn Cooper:
Erik Varg:
Your wit is only making you even more attractive, Quinn.
Is that Tesseract? What a sweet fluffy loaf.
This is Loki.
Quinn Cooper:
What are the odds that we’d both have feline foot warmers right now?
Erik Varg:
Considering they’re cats and we’re both sitting at home right now? Fairly high.
Quinn Cooper:
I hope I didn’t interrupt any big plans you and the trickster God may have had for the evening.
Erik Varg:
You didn’t. I’d rather talk to you than him anyway.
Quinn Cooper:
Charmer
Erik Varg:
Only with you, Quinn. Only with you
I let the door slam behind me as I step into my childhood home. Framed school photos from elementary through high school line the long hallway. There’s the photo with my missing three front teeth, where I insisted on sticking my tongue out through the holes as the camera flashed. There’s the photo where I tried to cover a massive pimple on my forehead with a neon pink bandage. The photo where I cut my hair into a bob and instead of looking sleek and sophisticated, my thick curls ballooned out from my face, turning me into a yield sign.
The reusable grocery bags cut into the skin on my forearms, but it’s a matter of personal pride to carry everything inside in one trip. I place them on the spotted Formica counters and start unloading the food.Dad’s fridge is almost empty, so it’s a good thing I stopped on the way over. All he has is a package of string cheese, some deli meat, and two silver cans of Diet Coke. Before chemo, Dad had stocked the fridge with a local IPA. He usually only had one or two while watching the Arctic, never to excess, and his grumbling had surprised me when I poured the remaining cans down the sink. Beer might not be expressly forbidden, but chemo and alcohol could not be a good combination. Someone has to be an adult about all of this.
“Hey Quinnie,” Dad calls out as I stack yogurts in the fridge. Plain Greek yogurt, low in sugar. Dad will complain, but Susan at the treatment center swore it was one of the few things she’d stomached during her worst bouts of nausea.
