“What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing!”
I was gingerly opening cabinet doors looking for something to munch on. Nancy was in the living room reading.
I had sworn to her upon penalty of death not to eat before dinner.
She spent a lot of time making something she knew I’d like, and when it comes to ruining dinner with pre-meal munchies, I’m a repeat offender.
Hugo had his head resting on the counter. His eyes followed me as I silently inventoried the kitchen’s stock.
Usually when I’m in the kitchen it means a treat for him. Not this time. This time I was on a mission for me.
I’d quietly open a cabinet, look through the contents, then ever so delicately return the door to the closed position without a sound.
I was like a snack ninja.
My shoes were off so I could slide swiftly and silently from cabinet to cabinet like a covert operative without being exposed by a footfall.
My elbow hit an empty long stem wine glass on the counter- I spun on one foot and caught it before it toppled.
This sudden twisting move allowed my untied sweatpants to drop.
I froze still, waiting to see if she heard the “bong” the glass rang out when I hit it. My hands holding the glass, the pants slid down to somewhere between “rapper height” and “little kid peeing outside the car on the side of the parkway height.”
“Why are your pants down?”
Nancy came in to check the oven.
“I was just fixing my shirt.”
“Your t-shirt?”
I smiled.
She looked at Hugo and shook her head. “The day you tuck your shirt into your sweatpants is the day this relationship ends.”
“Duly noted.”
She adjusted the oven temperature and walked back in to the living room.
I pulled my pants up and continued.
The house was too quiet though.
“Want to hear some music, Nance?”
“Sure,” she called out.
I figured Norah Jones would offer the veil of sound I needed to cover any errant squeak or creak.
“Alexa, play Norah Jones.” She started with “Come Away With Me.” I breathed a little easier and remembered the hard sourdough pretzels in the bread drawer. I pulled it open while Norah offered to kiss some guy on a mountain top for some god-forsaken reason. I took the box out and let the soft-close feature close the drawer by itself.
I pulled a broken piece of pretzel out and placed it in my mouth. I hesitated. I knew this thing was going to sound like an exploding glass factory when I bit it. I let it sit on my tongue like holy communion.
I drank a little water and held it in my mouth to let it soften the pretzel. I incrementally clenched my jaw allowing the molars to test the hardness.
It seemed just mushy enough.
I clenched deeper and stopped when I felt the hard core.
I squeezed my lips tightly and crunched once in slow motion. It shattered in my mouth.
“What are you doing in there?”
“Mrmmrn”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re eating…”
I opened my mouth over the sink and let the contents drop out. I did that ‘blah blah blah’ tongue thing til all the shards fell out.
Clearly and with a tone of disappointment from her lack of trust, “What? No. I told you I wouldn’t, didn’t I?!”
“…alright. You promised. I believe you.”
(My spotty relationship with guilt is something that ever-baffles my therapist. This will be something we talk about at our next session.)
“I know,” I confirmed, “I’m just in here fixing the…” I looked around the kitchen but couldn’t think of something so I just coughed.
“Fixing the what?”
“The…” (cough again.)
Norah Jones was begging some guy to go somewhere with her.
“What?” Nancy needed an answer.
“…um, phone. Just fixing the phone. It’s acting up.”
I got this.
Stealth, thy name is Higgins.
I pulled the refrigerator door passed that suction point they all have, snaked my arm in and felt around for the horseradish mustard we just got.
Found it.
Gently closed the door during Norah’s “Don’t Know Why.”
It was a brand new mustard so I unscrewed the cap and peeled off that paper thing they have under the top.
I squeezed a small dollop onto a pretzel and took a nibble.
If Nancy knew how complicit Norah Jones was to my crime she’d never let her music play again in the house.
Or so I thought.
Women stick together no matter the circumstances.
I shook the bottle upside down to squeeze out another glob but fate put an air bubble right near the top.
It was a perfect storm of the
mustard air bubble and the silence that follows the end of a song.
“FBLURP”
“Oh God, Higgins!! Are you kidding me?!”
Men, what would you do?
1.) Take the punishment and admit you lied about eating and you were squeezing mustard onto a pretzel.
2.) Dodge the punishment and let her think that that awful noise came out of you?
I went with my old standby:
“It was Hugo.”
“Nice try. He’s in here with me, Higgins.”
Crap.
Treats would’ve kept him with me.
Rookie mistake.
