Page 11
She plopped on one end of the couch and patted the middle cushion. At first I thought she wanted me to sit next to her, but instead Nutella came racing in from God knows where, curling up in a ball on the middle cushion. Repressing a sigh, I sat on the other end, ignoring the hostile look I was getting from the cat.
After a brief discussion, we selected a movie. The credits were just starting when the person at the front desk buzzed to let us know the pizza guy was here. I met him at the elevator, taking the extra large pie from him, and sending him on his way with a generous tip.
When I got back inside, Olga had already grabbed plates and napkins. I set the pizza on the coffee table.
“Beer? Water? Soda?” I asked.
“Beer and water, please.”
I returned with bottles for both of us, then pressed ‘play’ on the television, restarting the movie. As Olga piled several slices of pizza onto her plate, she sent me a sunny smile over her shoulder.
“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“No, kindergarten was the beginning, this is Friendship Part Two.”
She leaned back on the couch, then clinked her beer bottle against mine. “To friendship.”
For some reason, I had the impression she was trying to convince herself we were just going to be friends just as much as I was.
“Hey, do you still like twinkies?” I asked.
She gave me a curious look. “Yeah, they’re my favorite, why?”
“I have a fresh box in the cabinet.”
Her smile made me feel like I won the lottery. “Wow, you really know the way to a girl’s heart.”
***
Over the next few weeks, we fell into a routine.
Olga and I didn’t see each other at all during the week. Olga worked regular business hours and I usually worked late afternoon and nights Sunday through Friday, so I was still sleeping when she left for work in the morning, and by the time I got home at night, she was in bed. We usually texted each other a few times a day though, checking in, or sharing information the way you did when you were roommates.
On Friday nights we had movie night. As soon as she got home from work, she’d change into something comfortable, we’d order delivery from one of the many restaurants in the neighborhood, and then we’d hang out on the couch for a few hours talking, laughing, eating, and watching movies. It was nice. Domestic. Something I’d never had with anyone before.
Saturdays were the only full day we had off together, and sometimes we’d do something together, sometimes not. Olga often went to yoga class or hung out with her sister for part of the weekend, and every other Saturday she had family dinner at her parents’ house. But if we were both free, sometimes we’d take a walk or go to a music show or just wander around the farmer’s market for a while, or sit side by side on the couch reading and then make dinner together.
About three weeks after she moved in Olga turned to me midway through the Friday night movie and hit me with a serious look. I paused the movie we were watching.
“What’s the matter?”
We’d gotten to know each other pretty well over the past few weeks, and I recognized this as her troubled expression.
“You can say no,” she said nervously. “But my mother wants to know if you’ll come for dinner. I explained to her that we’re just roommates and friends, but Mama and Tato still really want to meet you and I’m afraid if you don’t come for dinner they’re just going to show up here some day and ambush you and then that will be even more awkward.”
This all came out in a nervous rush. I reached over and placed my hand on her thigh. Nutella, who was between us on the couch as usual, immediately hissed and scratched at my arm.
“It’s fine, I’d love to see your parents again.”
I’d met Olga’s parents several times when we were in school together, usually when they came to school events or we ran into each other in the neighborhood.
I had a dim memory of a stern looking couple with thick accents. I knew that Olga’s parents had moved to the U.S. a couple of years before Alona was born, eager to build a new life in America. Like most immigrants who landed in Chicago back then, they moved into an ethnic neighborhood where they could be around people like themselves as they acclimated to living in a new country.
My family was one of the few non-Ukrainians who lived in that neighborhood and while the area had been significantly gentrified over the years, I knew that Ukrainian Village was still an ethnic enclave.
“When are we going?” I asked when Olga didn’t say anything else.
“Um, does tomorrow night work?”
