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“Friends. Friends. Friends,” I chant out in a whisper to myself. I have responsibilities, and I can’t just let that all fall apart because I want her. So I repeat those words fifty times until I get it through my head as I walk down the stairs.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Why do you keep chanting friend?” Chanel’s on the couch with her iPad. Her gaze doesn’t even lift in my direction as her words come out of her mouth.
“Umm, because it’s a song onThe Simpsons...” I tell her, trying to make up a plausible explanation as fast as possible.
I have watched all seven hundred and forty-one episodes ofThe Simpsonsat least four times.There is no such thing.
“Is that why you have a Homer Simpson tattoo on your thigh?” she asks me while still focused on her iPad, doing something vigorously with her Apple pencil.
Does this girl have photographic memory? I’ve met her once.
“Yes, it’s been my favorite show of all time for exactly thirty-three years of my life,” I reply happily.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, still not looking up from her iPad.
After standing in the middle of the room for the first part of our conversation, I decide to walk into the kitchen to make breakfast of some sort as I explain my reasoning to her. “I was born on December seventeenth in nineteen eighty-nine, the day the first episode ever aired. I see it as destiny aligning,” I tell her with both my hands opening from above my head, adding a dramatic element to my words.
“Makes sense,” she mutters.
“What makes sense?”
“You’re a Sagittarius,” she deadpans.
“I will say that I do think that my Zodiac sign fits me well. Sagittariuses are superior and hurtfully underrated,” I say, smiling.
“Cleo and I are Pisces,” she replies simply, as if she thinks she needs to give me information in return.
“Cool,” I tell her, content with our conversation.
“One more question. Why is Homer Simpson basically drunk on your leg?”
“Because I thought it was stupid and I wanted a tattoo for my favorite show.” I shrug as I turn on the stove. I decide to make French toast, eggs, and bacon today. It sounds appealing enough, and I am practically salivating for good food at the moment.
I go to the fridge and grab all my ingredients. As I peacefully go to open the bread, all I hear is the slam of a door.
“¿Quién carajos puso mi alarma? ¡Se supone que estamos de vacaciones!”I hear a shout from the top of the steps from what I can assume is Cleo.
“We aren’t on vacation. You take classes at a makeup school, which is hardly a university,” Chanel replies, still on her iPad. This girl is the definition of unbothered.
“¿Por qué hablas en inglés, pendeja?” Cleo tells her before noticing my presence. “Oh,” she says in realization.
I’m leaning against the counter with my arms crossed while I smirk. Cleo gulps, and Chanel finally peels her eyes up from her iPad with a bored expression.
“I didn’t set that alarm, so don’t go all Sherlock on me.” I hold my hands up in innocence.
“I set the alarm,” Chanel tells her.
Cleo’s face turns into rage. “Miss little, don’t interrupt my beauty sleep, has the audacity to barge in on mine!”
“You sleep until two p.m. most days,” Chanel responds.
“Apologize,” Cleo tells her twin with her hands on her hips.
“No,” her sister says with her mind made up.
I’m just standing here watching this whole fight unfold. I would be lying if I said I didn’t love some drama. The fact that they are fighting makes for the perfect entertainment this beautiful Monday morning.
