Imani was just supposed to make sure that the lost dog got home safely, come back, and pretend like the mere thought of the owner with doe eyes and an armful of tattoos didn't make her question her entire belief system. Sounds simple enough...right...
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(tw: mention of homophobia)
It's way past time for breakfast when I finally step out of my room and almost stumble on my way to the kitchen, eyes bleary and hair sitting atop my head in a way that distinctly reminds me of a pile of hay.
I scratch my head and get my fingers tangled in the locks, letting out a sleepy whine and catching the attention of Ved and Layla, who are sitting at the dining table preparing for... lunch? How did I oversleep this much...? Blinking a few times with my nose scrunched up, I watch Layla swat at Ved's hand when he reaches for the knife to help her chop the vegetables.
Not thinking much of it since it's been a familiar, regular sight ever since that one time Ved almost set the entire house on fire trying to cook noodles, I walk straight into the kitchen to get myself some water. And again, it's Ved. and when Ved and cooking are mentioned even remotely close to each other in a sentence, we don't waste time questioning anything. We just separate them without a second thought. For the sake of humanity.
Layla asks something when I'm halfway through gulping my glass of water down like a dying mermaid, and I hold a hand up to tell her to wait because nothing makes sense right now. My head's heavy and my ears are ringing with a noise that sounds an awful lot like the crickets chirping from last night. I've never been a morning person, but if there's anything I hate more than waking up early it's waking up late.
"Shh, let her lubricate," Ved says in a stage whisper, and even though I want to aim the now empty glass straight for his head, I put it down on the counter and make my way to the table.
Layla lets out a noise of dissent. "Those have to be the worst set of words you've ever let past those chapped ass lips of yours."
Ved looks at her with an expression that tells me whatever comes out of his mouth is going to make me feel like I should make sure those are the last words that he ever speaks. And obviously, with a shit-eating grin on his face, he says exactly the words that make me want to make sure those are the last words that he ever speaks.
"Oh, you mean I need to lubricate them."
I slam my hand on the table. "Please stop saying lubricate."
Not having expected him to listen to me in the least, I prepare to kick the leg of his chair as I pass him by just as he opens his mouth to probably repeat the word a hundred times. But then Layla says 'stop' and he does. Not because she's the one who says it, but because she's the one with the knife.
I tip my head back until it's lolled in an uncomfortable position that makes the top of the chair dig into my skin. Ved clicks his tongue when I let out a pained groan and pushes my head forward, snaking an arm behind my neck for support.
"When did you sleep?" Layla asks, and my half-lidded eyes follow the way she neatly slices the potatoes, the tak tak tak of the edge of the knife against the chopping board oddly satisfying in the silence of the room.
