Page 29 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
After a few more seconds, he sighs, then disappears down the stairs again. He does whatever magic he did the first time, and the voice goes off.
He didn’t...do this on purpose, did he? The night before my internship?
He wouldn’t, would he?
I go back to bed before he makes it up the stairs. If he’s doing this on purpose, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how irritated I am.
The alarm goes off three more times during the night, so by the time my actual alarm buzzes at six a.m., I’m even more tired than I was the night before. I roll out of bed and make my way downstairs. A shower isn’t going to be enough to wake me up. I need coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
I smell the kitchen before I get there, but when I turn the corner, my mouth drops open. The kitchen I left spotless after making my dinner is a disaster. Visually and olfactorily. I don’t need to guess who is responsible for this.
The pungent odor is easily traceable to a torn-open, half-empty bag of microwave popcorn on the counter, surrounded by charred black pieces of popcorn. I scoop them back into the bag which has even more burned pieces inside, then carry it to theoutside garbage and leave the back door open when I come back. I’m tempted to search for air freshener, but since I’m not going to be home today, I’ll let the ocean breeze carry away some of the stink. Archie can handle the new smoothie mess he made, the empty fast-food wrappers on the counter, and whatever he’s spilled on the floor that I’ve stuck to twice.
Except, he won’t.
I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, and I already know he’s a slob. Unless that’s an act to irritate me…which seems possible. Because how can any adult just walk away from this mess? Does he really not see it? Orsmellit? Who does he think is going to clean it up if the housekeeper—who hasn’t been here since I showed up—is gone?
I don't have answers to any of those questions, except the last one.
Me.
Archie expects me to clean up his mess after waking me up five times last night. That wasn’t an accident, I’m sure of it. And hisrude awakeningwasn’t an innocent turn of phrase. He used to do the same thing when I was a kid, and he’d casually mention LBP, like I was too dumb to know he was talking about me.
Well, Archie’s in for his own rude awakening if he thinks I’ll be his housekeeper. Nope. I refuse. I spent an entire year cleaning up after Nightmare Ashley. I'm not doing it with Archie. No matter how much I’m itching to wipe everything down again and toss the empty beer bottle tipped on its side.
I avert my gaze from the mess and go to the cabinet where I found coffee beans yesterday. But they're not there.
I search all the cabinets, with no luck, until I see ground beans spilled around the espresso maker tucked in the corner. Archie’s left a mess there too, and, apparently, taken the last of the coffee. Even though I remember the bag being pretty full yesterday.
I slam the cabinets shut, not even trying to be quiet, give up on coffee, and go upstairs to take a shower.
An hour later, I come back downstairs, wearing my favorite outfit and find Archie at the kitchen table, sipping from a steaming mug. The scent of the coffee wafts across the kitchen—as only a good roast can—almost masking the stink of burned popcorn. The aroma is strong enough to make me crave my own cup even more, but not quite strong enough to wake me up.
Archie sips loudly, and I glance around the kitchen to see if, by chance, there’s another cup for me. I don't see anything.
Holding back a sigh, I ask, "Is there any coffee left, or should I pick some up today?"
He peels his eyes away from his phone long enough to look down at his cup, as though it suddenly appeared there on its own, then looks at me. "Sorry. I didn't think you'd want any. But if you want to pick up a bag, that'd be gnarly. Frothed is only a few kilometers away and has the best brews. You tell them you know me, and they'll give it to you at a discount."
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I stare at the coffee cup Archie sips from. “But unless it’s on the bus route to and from Valente, I probably won’t make it. Where's the closest grocery store? I'll stop there on my way home tonight.”
An expression of surprise—or maybe remembering—skitters across his face before he pushes himself up from the table. “Forgot you don’t have a car. There’s a Seven-Eleven a couple blocks south, on the main road.”
He avoids my eyes as he opens the pantry next to me and takes out a box of cereal, which he shakes up and down. “You want some?”
“Lucky Charms?” I say slowly, just to make sure Archie—a grown man—is seriously offering me a leprechaun’s cereal.
“Yeah. They’re magically delicious,” he says in an Irish brogue before shaking the box again.
I swallow the laugh attempting to escape and check my watch. I’m already running late. I don’t have time for an adult breakfast, or much desire for one that doesn’t include coffee. A kid’s breakfast is better than no breakfast, especially when I don’t know what my lunch break will be like.
“Sure…thanks.”
“You want me to make it for you?”
“Please.” I brush aside the suspicion that arises with his offer. I’m too tired to say no.
While Archie pours his own cereal and milk, I pack my satchel with my laptop and the salad I made last night for today’s lunch.
