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Nah. Gia, Honey, and Blue aren’t cruel enough to tell her about the blog. Not unprovoked, anyway.
Just in case, I text each of them and ask them if they posted comments on my blog.
Their answers are all in the negative, followed by questions about Art.
My replies lead to another Zoom session, during which I update my sisters on my cohabitation situation.
“He’s got the looks and the cooking skills. Damn.”
Gia and Blue echo the sentiment. I direct the conversation toward the SquirrelBoner mystery, but no one admits to using that name or telling Mom. Blue even offers to use her special skills to track SquirrelBoner. However, when she says she’d need a favor in return, I politely decline.
“Good luck then,” Blue says and jumps off the call. My other two sisters follow.
With a sigh, I close the Zoom app and start to brainstorm some content for my blog.
Oh, I know. I’ve never described what I think of as DJing. Great. I write up a post to explain it, and for funsies, I do my best to use phrases like “scratch it like a vinyl record” as often as possible.
As soon as I post, SquirrelBoner comments: “You’re so prolific. This blog is perfect.”
Should I just flat-out ask SquirrelBoner who he or she is?
Nah. I’ll figure it out. Eventually.
For the moment, I feel peckish, so I check out what Art made for me for lunch.
Dumplings?
I bite into one.
Yummy. It’s sweet, stuffed with cottage cheese, raisins, and dates.
For dessert, he left me a fruit salad, so I eat the cake from the other day instead, just to be contrary. Except Art wins anyway. His cooking incorporated so much fruit that I can only stomach one slice of cake—an unheard-of restraint for me.
My happy tummy inspires me to do something I’ve been meaning to do for a while—research how Russian men feel about curvy women. Purely as an anthropologist would, of course, not because I have any personal stake in the answer whatsoever.
The results of my research are promising—or would be, if I had any stake in this. For example, when I translate “curvy figure” into Russian, it returns “soblaznitel’naya figura.” If you then translate “soblaznitel’naya figura” back into English, it becomes “seductive figure.” Doesn’t that mean that “curvy” and “seductive” are interchangeable in Russian culture?
Still, what’s true for Russians in general doesn’t mean that one specific Russian (say, Art) likes certain specific curves (say, mine).
I shut my laptop in disgust. I don’t really have a problem with my body—at least I didn’t until this whole thing with Art. He’s just so out of my league, and the fact that he’s surrounded by all those waifish ballerinas doesn’t help.
Then again, he is about to retire, so the ballerinas won’t be around him anymore. And maybe he doesn’t think he’s that out of my league. After all, he hired me to be his wife, so he must think our coupling is at least somewhat plausible. Also, he liked me just fine when drunk. And what was the deal with that tenting blanket last night? Is it possible that—
The doorbell rings.
I check the peephole.
Speak of the handsome devil. Art is already holding up his driver’s license to his face.
Grinning, I open the door.
He walks in with two large paper bags in his hands.
“You went shopping?” I ask.
He nods. “How do you feel about a fusion dinner? I was thinking Pommes Anna made from sweet potato, along with fried yellow plantains Cuban-style and sweet-and-not-so-sour pork?”
“Wow. Super fancy. Can I help you make it?”
