"This soup really isn't that bad," Emma says while plugging her nose and bringing her spoon to her mouth. "You just have to avoid breathing when you eat it." It should have a warning label saying, "Rancid. Do not smell while consuming."
My bowl of the eleven-bean soup Emma snagged while at the kitchen store rests a foot in front of me, barely touched.
"Yeah, I've heard food critics talk about how NOT smelling the aroma of your food is the way to really enjoy a meal. The more pungent, the better." I grab my very white trash-esque solo cup wine glass and bring it to my lips, trying to get past the Angry Orchard that's inside it. It was, unfortunately, the only booze in the house, and I needed booze to make it through this soup, therefore I had no choice.
Emma sits back in her chair, grabs one of the cocktail napkins we bought, and dabs at her face. "It really is unpleasant soup, isn't it? And what's the crunchy thing in there? I'm all for texture in a meal, but I'm not quite sure what that crunchiness is."
"No fucking clue. I took two bites and was done."
She sighs and then smiles while she lifts up her hand, which is covered in red. "At least we got these bitchin' oven mitts." Lifting up my hand as well, the one that's donning the other oven mitt—she made me—we high-five across the table.
"I can't imagine ever topping such a prestigious buy. Not everyone can be as lucky as us," I say, playing into her delusional purchases. I look over at the soybean candle we have lit and say, "I will admit, that candle smells damn good. It was a risky purchase, buying a candle without taking a sniff test, but your spontaneous purchase paid off."
"So would we say I only had one dud for the day?" She nods at the soup.
I hold up my fingers. "Two, babe. Hummingbird mixer?" It's the "centerpiece" of our weird dinner she threw together for us. In her words, she didn't want it to feel left out.
"But it looks so pretty sitting in the middle of this ornate card table." She pulls a Vanna White and shows off the table, motioning her arms around our mishmash of a dinner table.
"So ornate. I really enjoyed seeing warning signs of human digestion on the mixer container while I tried to suck down that soup. Made for an appealing atmosphere."
She chuckles, turns the hummingbird mix to see the warning labels and cringes. "Maybe not the best, but," she holds up her finger and says, "I have an idea. Take your drink and oven mitt over to the sofa and I'll meet you there."
"Are things about to get kinky?" I wiggle my eyebrows at her.
"You wish."
She clears the table, which I feel guilty about. There is a need inside me to take care of her, and clearing the dishes, although simple, seems like something I should help out with, but knowing Emma, she would snip at me if I didn't do what I was told. Therefore, I pick my drink up off the table and head over to the sofa. The only light in the room is from the small chandelier in the dining room, but it makes for some great mood lighting.
I press my body against the armrest and lift my legs on the cushions so I'm spanning the length of the entire sofa. I place my oven mitt hand behind my head and wait. When Emma returns, she saunters over to me in her cute heart-covered pajama set with a spoon and a gallon of ice cream.
"Up for a different kind of dinner?"
"I'm always up for dessert for dinner. What flavor?"
"Chocolate chip cookie dough, the best kind."
"Can't argue with you there." I pat my lap. "Have a seat, beautiful."
She raises an eyebrow at me. "You expect me to just sit on your crotch?"
