Chapter 17 - Jamison
Jamison
Isighed and logged out of my work VPN, closing my server access window with a harder-than-required click of my mouse.
I was exhausted after what felt like a whole week’s work crammed into a day.
We were preparing to launch a community consultation about a new policy, and I’d spent the past eight hours drafting communications and then deliberately picking them apart from the most negative point-of-view I could muster, so we could be prepared for how naysayers might react.
I felt like I’d spent the day slapping myself, both mentally and physically.
My eyes ached; my brain ached; my soul ached.
I loved my job. I did. I had opportunities to make a difference in the world. But sometimes it was soul-sucking. I needed to recharge. I reached for my phone and thumbed open my texts, reading the last messages Hen and I had exchanged this morning.
Me: And that’s why I’m having to lock Minnie out of the room while I work. I feel like I’m kicking a, well, kitten.
Hen: She’s young, she’ll get over it. Give her and Kellogg kisses from me, and then go do your work. Xx
I’d done as he asked and smooched each cat on top of their head, causing Kellogg to swat at me and Minnie to immediately start to bathe.
Cats. But I had to admit, it was a decent way to start my day when kissing Hen wasn’t an available option, which it hadn’t been today.
We’d been confining our sleepovers to weekends for the past few weeks since we officially became an item.
Otherwise it was too tempting to stay in bed and skip out on, or at least be late for, work, and Hen had a commission coming due and I had, well, this shittastic consultation to prepare for.
I sighed. So much for clearing my mind. Time to ask for assistance.
Me: Distract me from work worries.
There was no reply for a few minutes, and, muttering darkly, I stalked into the kitchen and started rifling through my cabinets to see what I had to eat.
Honestly, very little. Cans of baked beans did not a healthy dinner make.
I found a box of mac and cheese and considered it for a long moment.
Did I have milk to prepare it with? I set the box on the counter and crossed to the fridge.
Just as I was opening the fridge - yes, milk! - my phone buzzed. I grabbed the milk carton and whirled to check my messages.
Hen: [gif of man dancing wildly]
Hen: [photo of Solo and Curie curled up together on the couch]
Hen: *insert dick pic here*
I grinned at the placeholder line, which very clearly did not actually contain a dick pic.
Me: No fair teasing. I want the real thing.
Hen sent me another photo of the cats, this time a selfie where Solo was draped across his shoulders and Curie had her paws extended in a making-biscuits posture on his knee.
Me: D’awww. I miss them.
Hen: They miss you too. Are we still on for Friday?
Me: Hell yeah. I’m excited to get introduced to Home Depot by a native.
Hen: Wouldn’t I have had to grow up in a Home Depot to be a native of it? I grew up in Perth Amboy, which, yes, a little industrial, but hardly a big box store.
Me: Pfft, you spend enough time at hardware stores to qualify for citizenship. You and your wood habit.
Hen: To be fair, a lot of my wood comes special-order. It’s not like I stalk the plywood aisles picking up pieces that look sexy.
Me: Who said anything about sexy? Wait, do you find wood sexy? I feel like this is the sort of thing I should have known before we took our pants off together.
Hen: Lol. I think we were so toasted that night that you might not have noticed if I was made of wood.
Me: Mmm, your wood.
Hen: You’re awful. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Me: But it’s nice and dark and warm down here!
I put the phone down long enough to fill a pot with water for the macaroni and cheese and set it on the burner, then picked the device back up again to find Hen’s latest reply. Absentmindedly, I flipped the burner to high.
Hen: You know where else it’s dark and warm? My bed. It misses you. I think the cats do too. Solo looks extra-grumpy today.
Me: Aw, I miss you, your bed, and the cats too. And Solo just has resting bitch face, don’t judge him. Those of us with the affliction are constantly being told to smile.
Hen: I don’t think you have RBF, I think you might just…be bitchy.
Immediately, another text came in.
Hen: Wait, was that too mean? I was teasing, I swear. You’re not bitchy.
Me: Yeah I am. I own it. But I try not to be bitchy to you. You’re too sweet to bitch at.
Hen: [gif of Wolverine from X-Men baring his teeth]
Hen: Grar, manly man not sweet. Manly man smash.
I rolled my eyes at my phone, unable to stop myself from imagining Hen saying those words out loud and trying to look tough. It…kinda reminded me of Solo’s grumpy face, which I guess was the point.
Me: Patpat. You’re adorably manly, dear.
Hen: Sigh. I don’t think I can be “adorable” and “manly” at the same time.
Me: I beg to differ. You are both and I will die on that hill.
Hen: No dying, please. I prefer you alive. You’re much more fun that way.
Me: You’re just bitter because you’re not into necrophilia.
Hen: Oh my god you’re so weird. I’m pretty happy that I’m not a necrophile, actually. Ugh. SUBJECT CHANGE PLEASE.
Me: Uh…I’m making macaroni and cheese and I’m genuinely unsure if this milk is going to kill me or not?
I gave it an experimental sniff and couldn’t decide if it smelled off or not. I’d just bought it on Sunday, so it really should be fine, but I didn’t trust milk. It had a habit of going chunky with no warning.
Hen: Dude, if you’re not sure if your dinner is going to kill you, maybe try a different dinner? See also previously mentioned “I prefer you alive”.
Me: Nah it’s fine.
I sniffed again and nodded. Yeah, it was ok enough to cook with.
Me: Almost certainly won’t die.
Hen: I have a sudden urge to invite you over for dinner, except I’m eating Stouffer’s lasagna out of the plastic container and I’m not 100% sure that’s any better. Pretty sure cow lips are involved in this stuff. Not to mention probably cancer-causing chemicals in the plastic.
Me: God, we have the sexiest conversations.
Hen: Sorry. [embarrassed emoji]
Me: Don’t apologize. This is totally taking my mind off my work stress, even if it would look weird from the outside.
I dumped the pasta into the boiling water and set the timer for seven minutes.
Me: I have seven minutes until I have to drain my pasta. Quick, tell me what you did today.
Hen: Ack, time pressure! Um, let’s see.
Hen: Curie woke me up at 5:30 by smacking me in the nose. My alarm wasn’t set to go off until 6:30, but I couldn’t get back to sleep after she settled on my chest and started purring. Pretty sure that was a defense mechanism to keep me from throwing her across the room in frustration.
Me: Smart kitty.
Hen: Devil kitty. Meanwhile, Solo decided to wash his ass on the end of the bed.
Loudly. So yeah, I was up. Coffee and breakfast, and then I took the cats to the workshop.
Solo got to wear the leash I bought him, since I’m still not sure if he’s inclined to follow or wander.
He hates it with a burning passion and I ended up carrying him most of the way between the buildings.
It was either that or drag his limp body along the ground.
But once we got into the workshop he settled in ok on a pillow and the cats watched me cut pieces for a new commission I’m just starting to assemble.
Me: And they really don’t, like, try to stick their tails in the saws or anything?
Hen: They’re adult cats, not toddler humans. They’re smart enough to keep away from the ouchie things. Which, I mean, judging by the number of scars I have from work mishaps, they’re smarter than me on that.
Me: But at least you get paid for it.
Hen: Honestly, I’d rather be a cat and sleep all day.
Anyway, I started assembling that cabinet and that ate up a few hours, and then I had lunch and then worked on finishing the rocking chair you saw me working on last weekend.
I’m up to the varnish step on that, so pretty much done after this and it can go to its new home.
Me: Aw, I’m gonna miss that chair. It was so nice when you let me sit in it.
Hen: Shh, don’t tell the buyer I let someone put their ass in it before I gave it to him.
Me: Wait, do people actually care about that?
Hen: Honestly, probably not, but enough people do get weird about stuff like that that I choose to just not mention it. Even though it would make total sense if they thought about it for me or someone else to test that it could hold human weight appropriately.
Hen: Oh, and then I found cat hair in the varnish, so I got to clean that up with tweezers. I’m gonna need glasses soon if I have to keep doing that.
Me: List it as a feature. “A genuine Rodriguez Creations piece will come with genuine cat hair accents. Accept no imitations!”
My timer went off and I tasted a piece of the pasta.
Yep, done. I put my phone down and carried the pot to the sink to strain it, then stirred in the cheese sauce, butter, and yes, the iffy milk.
I reached for a serving bowl, then paused and considered the pot.
Did I really need to dirty another dish?
On the other hand, was I really going to be That Guy In His 30s who eats out of the pot so he doesn’t have to do dishes?
Sighing, I spooned the pasta into the bowl.
Look at me adulting like a boss. I set the bowl on the kitchen table, picked up my phone again, and sat down.
Me: [picture of bowl of macaroni and cheese]
Me: The most adult of dinners.
Hen: At least you’re not eating it out of the pot.
Me: [guilty emoji] It was close.
Hen: But you did the thing, so you get credit! Go on and eat, I’ll stop bothering you.
Me: No, don’t go! I mean, unless you want to go. You probably need both hands for your lasagna. Nevermind, go on.