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Is he going to bring a date?
(Blakely)
Jess’s house was a California-style bungalow, with surfboards leaned against her gate, a wide front porch, hardwood floor and arched doors. She had painted everything in quirky colors and had handcrafted a lot of the details. Her kitchen had tile counters, and ancient cupboards, and opened up on her dining room, a big table surrounded by mismatched brightly colored chairs. I plopped down in one while she pulled glasses from a hutch. I said, “I’m lamenting the lack of cheese danish now and wondering, should I order a cheese danish?”
She said, “It’s ten thirty and we already had chocolate cake.”
“Right. totally. Are you sure?”
“Totally sure.” The walls in this room were fiesta orange, contrasting with the bright yellow kitchen, all of it a cheery nod to her Southern California roots. She gestured toward the kitchen cabinet doors, “Do you like the knobs?” She pulled a loose cork from a bottle of wine with her teeth and poured us two glasses. “I hand-painted them.”
I took a sip of wine. “I love them, I love that you always have projects, and I know I keep saying it, but that tile-mosaic backsplash is so great.”
“Thanks, babe.” She sat down in a chair. “Tomorrow I’ll be your assistant all day for the first round of treatments, then the day after I’ll help you get ready for the party. I’m your plus-one right?”
“Absolutely, you have to come, I need someone to remind me not to scowl.” I pushed my glass away. “Speaking of the party, I probably shouldn’t drink too much, shouldn’t I be like juice-fasting? The world wants me to look great in my dress. It’s so pretty, wait until you see it.” I chef-kissed my fingertips.
She waved her hand. “Yes, you need sleep, you need fasting, manicure, spa, hair removal, all the things.”
“Darren is probably going to put on a tux and just show up. Men are such assholes.”
“Yeah... is he going to bring a date?”
My mouth opened and closed a few times. “How...? Could he...?”
She shrugged. “It is likely, hon, be ready.”
“Well, that’s fine, whatever, if he wants to be unprofessional, to bring some piece of ass to a work event, fine, I can’t stop him. I, on the other hand, will be professional. I will be there as a representative of our agency, yeah.”
She appraised me. “You look like you need to do some crafting.” She lugged a basket up from the floor and tipped it out, rolling long wooden door pulls across the table. She pulled a plastic lid off a palette uncovering six paint dabs. As a model she placed a finished door pull, whimsically striped, in front of me.
“What gives, you don’t mind if I paint while buzzed?”
“Just try and make it look like the finished one.”
I started painting, but got a giant splotch and then wiped it away with a smear.
She said, “Better than that though, you’re not a kindergartener.”
We both settled into painting our door pulls and then she said, “You’re probably wondering why I wanted to talk to you...”
