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“You’ll eat less pizza then,” she continues, “consume less calories, and you’ll feel better after your meal.”
Yeah, okay. If I cared about consuming less calories, I guess.
Fine. Fuck it. Whatever. I stalk over to the refrigerator and grab the Ranch dressing in the inside of the door.
“No,” she blurts out, stopping me. “There’s dressing on it already. Raspberry vinaigrette.”
I straighten and fix her with a look.
She just smiles and turns away.
I take out two forks, pass her one, and carry my plate and soda into the living room with her trailing behind.
Once seated, I pick up my fork and let out a sigh before digging into the salad. I remember what my mom said about vegetables growing up. They taste better if you eat them when you’re hungry. I’ll get it over with and eat them first like Jordan suggested then.
I stuff the forkful in my mouth, the bitter taste of the leaves dulled only a little by the sweet dressing.
“Good, right?” she says.
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re killing me.”
She laughs. “Well, thanks for giving it a shot. You can stop if you want.”
But I persevere anyway. It’s not like I couldn’t use a dose of gre
ens, right?
And it’s not like I hate vegetables. I like corn on the cob and like…potatoes and stuff. Those are technically vegetables, right?
“So, what are you watching?” she asks.
I look up at the TV and realize the volume is too low. I reach for the remote and turn it up. “Fight Club,” I tell her.
“Oh, hey. I was born the year this was made.”
I arch an eyebrow but keep my mouth shut.
But I do the math in my head, remembering I saw this my senior year in high school. So yeah, that would be about right.
Shit, I’m getting old. To think of everything that’s gone on in my lifetime that she wasn’t around for or old enough to remember. I glance over at her, taking in her young skin and hopeful eyes.
She was just in high school a year ago.
We eat in silence for the next couple of hours, engrossed in one of my favorite movies. I have no idea if she’s already seen it, but she after a while, her plate sits half-eaten and forgotten on the coffee table, and she’s sitting at the other end of the couch, hugging her legs and watching intently.
“They make smoking look so appetizing,” she finally says, watching Marla Singer on the screen.
“Appetizing?”
She clears her throat and sits up. “Well, it’s like Bruce Willis,” she explains. “I could watch him smoke for days. It’s like he’s eating. Eating a nice, succulent…”
“Steak,” I finish for her, understanding.
“Exactly.” She flashes me a soft smile. “They totally own it. It’s part of their wardrobe.”
“Well,” I sigh, gathering up our plates and rising. “Don’t start smoking.”
