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I giggle. See what I mean?After we finish lunch, I head back home, using the short drive to think about what I’m going to wear to the dinner party. I already know my options are limited since I’ve been putting off doing laundry for the last few days. After racking my brain, I admit defeat and surrender to the fact that I’ll need to put in a load as soon as I get home.
I find my cream shirt with the lace cap sleeves in the bottom of a pile of clothes in the bathroom, then I trudge down to the basement of my complex and throw it in the only empty machine left, along with a few other clothing items. I turn it on the fastest cycle and impatiently wait the twenty minutes until it’s done, then throw it in the dryer. Rather than waste more time waiting, I go back upstairs to check on Iris.
“Iris? It’s me,” I say, knocking gently on her door.
I hear her moving around inside and then the door swings open. She smiles, and places her soft, wrinkled hand in mine, yanking me inside. I laugh because she’s much stronger than she looks.
“Are you going to stand there looking silly, or are you going to sit down?”
She’s already on her way into the kitchen to prepare our usual tea without waiting for an answer. It might seem strange that I’m such good friends with my eighty-year-old, widowed neighbor, but if you met her, you’d understand why. She’s fucking hilarious.
My own grandparents died when I was little, so I never really got to experience that kind of relationship. I’m not sure that’s what Iris and I have, but whatever it is, I love it. I’ve only been living next door to her for a few weeks, but I feel like I’ve known her forever. I’m always at her place, catching up on the latest gossip from the world of reality TV, and every week, I’ve tried to take her out somewhere, just to get her out of her apartment.
We don’t talk about her family, though I know she has a daughter who lives locally who she never sees. That makes me sad because she’s such a great person and so much fun to hang around.
“So, what are we watching?” I call out to her, making myself comfortable on the couch.
Like I even need to ask.
Milton, her cat, runs over to me, jumping into my lap, meowing. I pet him and glance at Iris as she walks back in, carrying a tray.
“He loves you so much,” she says fondly. She places my tea on the table, along with the homemade biscuits she knows I love. “It’s strange because he can’t stand people most of the time. Me included.”
“Milton and I are very alike,” I joke as I pet him under the chin.
I can’t stand being around people either, sometimes.
He jumps off my lap and runs out of the room. I reach for my tea, smiling as I take a sip. It’s so comforting. Is it offensive to say that there’s something special about tea made by an old person that makes it taste better? I can have the same brand of tea and make it at home, and it wouldn’t make a difference. It’s like going to a café and ordering a sandwich. You can get all the same ingredients at home, but it’s never going to taste the same.
Iris sinks down into her chair, turning her attention back to the TV. She shakes her head and nods toward the screen, annoyed.
“I can't believe he’s chosen this biddy over the one with the legs that go on for miles,” she snaps, shaking her head in disgust.
I chuckle to myself because she’s hysterical. She’s a reality TV junkie. There’s no other way to describe it. I’ve never met anyone with such an appetite for conflict and drama, much less someone in their eighties. She has that channel running day and night. In fact, I’m pretty sure she sleeps in that chair.
“They’re advertising for contestants for next year, you know.” Iris turns to me and narrows her eyes.
“What?” I laugh, a blush creeping across my cheeks. “Me? No way. I could never go on anything like this. Besides, I don’t need a TV show to embarrass myself in front of someone. I can do that all on my own.” I glance at the screen and shake my head because this show is such a load of crap. “How many of these people do you think actually end up together?”
“What are you saying?” Iris asks, frowning at me.
“You think they actually get married?” I laugh at her horrified expression. “They’ll be engaged at the end of this, sure, but two weeks later, it’ll be off. And last season? Yes, they made it to the wedding, but I heard that he slept with the third runner-up on his wedding night. After saying their vows.”
