“Fig!” someone called out. “We’re in the kitchen.”
Jolene peeked her head around the doorway, a brilliant smile on her face. I edged my way around the living room, bracing myself for the onslaught of eyes. What I saw when I turned the corner was Jolene crouching in front of the dishwasher wearing my dress. At the very least it wasn’t purple, she was wearing the black option I’d debated over for hours. Purple or black? Purple or black? In the end I’d settled on the purple because it was less funeral and more summer. Now, seeing Jolene in the black, I was doubting my decision. The dress made you notice her more, but it came secondary to what you knew was underneath the fabric. I smiled weakly, expecting everyone to comment right away on our fashion mishap, but no one seemed to notice as they said hello.
I’m wearing the same dress as her, I wanted to scream. Are you people blind?
Jolene asked what I wanted to drink.
“Whatever you’re having,” I said. She left to pour me a gin and tonic, and Amanda came over to say hi.
“You look so great,” she exclaimed.
Normally, I’d be weary of a compliment from another woman, who often only gave compliments to either point out a flaw: You look great, not at all fat like you used to be. Or: You look great, have you lost weight? I lost weight too, can you tell? But she left it at that, moving the topic to warm weather and then my work. And I did look great. She handed my drink and the ice rattled against the glass. I cast a sideways glance at Jolene, who was standing next to Darius. His arm was wrapped casually around her waist, and it looked like his thumb was playing with the line of her panties through her dress. I wasn’t wearing any panties; he’d be more fulfilled doing that to me. She wasn’t near as skinny as I was.
Like the universe was out to sting me, Amanda said, “I love your dress, Jolene, you look like a sex kitten.”
Darius smiled over his shoulder at her and said, “I know, right. I can’t keep my hands off.”
“Luckily you don’t have to,” she shot back. It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed the camaraderie between Amanda and Darius. I retreated into the corner of the kitchen feeling sulky. Amanda and Darius shared a similar dryness, I supposed. Their jokes always ended with deadpan stares and collective confusion around the room about whether they were serious or pulling your leg.
Jolene announced that if we wanted to make our reservation we needed to head to the restaurant. Darius and Jolene drove their car, and after a brief exchange outside, Amanda and Hollis jumped into the back seat.
“Come with us, Fig,” they called out. I didn’t want to be squashed in the middle. I was aggravated as I walked to my car, cursing under my breath. This all felt like a big setup.
When we got to the restaurant, the hostess complimented Jolene on her dress. I rolled my eyes so hard.
I was the last to the table and the farthest away from Jolene and Darius. I slid into my seat, trying not to make eye contact with anyone lest they see my annoyance. The conversation flitted from what everyone was going to order, to where you could get the best oysters for your buck. Oysters were an aphrodisiac, Darius told us. We’d all heard it before, but everyone pretended to be interested anyway. Pretty soon we were on the topic of sex. I shot glances at Darius while he spoke, wondering what he was like in bed. I’d heard Jolene’s labored moaning from their open bedroom window on more than one occasion. I hadn’t had sex in so long Nooni began to tingle.
My mother named my privates, Nooni. She said she didn’t want me to be in the grocery store like her friend Lisa’s daughter, screaming out, My vagina is burning! in the checkout line. So, we called it Nooni, and that was that. I don’t really know where she came up with that name, except in sixth grade my friend Katie called her grandma Nooni, which made things really awkward for me. I called her grandma Vagina in my head. I never told Katie that. The name Nooni probably should have dropped off at some point, but it stuck all the way through college and into adulthood. And here I was at the dinner table thinking about Nooni as I stared down at my French onion soup, everyone laughing around me.
When I looked up, Darius was watching me from the other side of the table. I felt warm all the way down to my toes.
Jolene and I were chatting in the kitchen when Darius got home from work. He had a brown drippy stain on his shirt, and he was wearing black-rimmed glasses, which I’d never seen him in before. He was unusually quiet, kissing her on the cheek and shooting a quick hello at me before grabbing a glass from the drying rack. Our conversation about Mercy’s sleepover with Jolene’s mom dwindled as we both zoned in on his tense back.
“Did work suck?” she asked, walking over to where he was slicing a lime for his drink, and rubbing his back.
This was my favorite part of the day—when Darius talked about his clients. He never told us their names, but there were always stories that either made us laugh, or had us groaning. Jolene said he was unburdening their burdens. He shrugged her off and moved to the trash can to toss the dried up part of the lime. Seemingly unaffected by his casual rejection, Jolene walked across the kitchen and sat at the table, propping her feet up on the chair next to her as Darius launched into a full account of his day. He finished his drink and poured another while we asked him questions about the lady who forced her ten-year-old son to wear pink even though he was made fun of at school.
“I got a text from Rachel today,” he said, finally, pulling a bottle of gin from the cabinet. Rachel, that was a name I’d never heard. I glanced at Jolene, who was picking at her nails. Her face was neutral, giving me no indication of who this Rachel girl was.
Jolene peeked her head around the doorway, a brilliant smile on her face. I edged my way around the living room, bracing myself for the onslaught of eyes. What I saw when I turned the corner was Jolene crouching in front of the dishwasher wearing my dress. At the very least it wasn’t purple, she was wearing the black option I’d debated over for hours. Purple or black? Purple or black? In the end I’d settled on the purple because it was less funeral and more summer. Now, seeing Jolene in the black, I was doubting my decision. The dress made you notice her more, but it came secondary to what you knew was underneath the fabric. I smiled weakly, expecting everyone to comment right away on our fashion mishap, but no one seemed to notice as they said hello.
I’m wearing the same dress as her, I wanted to scream. Are you people blind?
Jolene asked what I wanted to drink.
“Whatever you’re having,” I said. She left to pour me a gin and tonic, and Amanda came over to say hi.
“You look so great,” she exclaimed.
Normally, I’d be weary of a compliment from another woman, who often only gave compliments to either point out a flaw: You look great, not at all fat like you used to be. Or: You look great, have you lost weight? I lost weight too, can you tell? But she left it at that, moving the topic to warm weather and then my work. And I did look great. She handed my drink and the ice rattled against the glass. I cast a sideways glance at Jolene, who was standing next to Darius. His arm was wrapped casually around her waist, and it looked like his thumb was playing with the line of her panties through her dress. I wasn’t wearing any panties; he’d be more fulfilled doing that to me. She wasn’t near as skinny as I was.
Like the universe was out to sting me, Amanda said, “I love your dress, Jolene, you look like a sex kitten.”
Darius smiled over his shoulder at her and said, “I know, right. I can’t keep my hands off.”
“Luckily you don’t have to,” she shot back. It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed the camaraderie between Amanda and Darius. I retreated into the corner of the kitchen feeling sulky. Amanda and Darius shared a similar dryness, I supposed. Their jokes always ended with deadpan stares and collective confusion around the room about whether they were serious or pulling your leg.
Jolene announced that if we wanted to make our reservation we needed to head to the restaurant. Darius and Jolene drove their car, and after a brief exchange outside, Amanda and Hollis jumped into the back seat.
“Come with us, Fig,” they called out. I didn’t want to be squashed in the middle. I was aggravated as I walked to my car, cursing under my breath. This all felt like a big setup.
When we got to the restaurant, the hostess complimented Jolene on her dress. I rolled my eyes so hard.
I was the last to the table and the farthest away from Jolene and Darius. I slid into my seat, trying not to make eye contact with anyone lest they see my annoyance. The conversation flitted from what everyone was going to order, to where you could get the best oysters for your buck. Oysters were an aphrodisiac, Darius told us. We’d all heard it before, but everyone pretended to be interested anyway. Pretty soon we were on the topic of sex. I shot glances at Darius while he spoke, wondering what he was like in bed. I’d heard Jolene’s labored moaning from their open bedroom window on more than one occasion. I hadn’t had sex in so long Nooni began to tingle.
My mother named my privates, Nooni. She said she didn’t want me to be in the grocery store like her friend Lisa’s daughter, screaming out, My vagina is burning! in the checkout line. So, we called it Nooni, and that was that. I don’t really know where she came up with that name, except in sixth grade my friend Katie called her grandma Nooni, which made things really awkward for me. I called her grandma Vagina in my head. I never told Katie that. The name Nooni probably should have dropped off at some point, but it stuck all the way through college and into adulthood. And here I was at the dinner table thinking about Nooni as I stared down at my French onion soup, everyone laughing around me.
When I looked up, Darius was watching me from the other side of the table. I felt warm all the way down to my toes.
Jolene and I were chatting in the kitchen when Darius got home from work. He had a brown drippy stain on his shirt, and he was wearing black-rimmed glasses, which I’d never seen him in before. He was unusually quiet, kissing her on the cheek and shooting a quick hello at me before grabbing a glass from the drying rack. Our conversation about Mercy’s sleepover with Jolene’s mom dwindled as we both zoned in on his tense back.
“Did work suck?” she asked, walking over to where he was slicing a lime for his drink, and rubbing his back.
This was my favorite part of the day—when Darius talked about his clients. He never told us their names, but there were always stories that either made us laugh, or had us groaning. Jolene said he was unburdening their burdens. He shrugged her off and moved to the trash can to toss the dried up part of the lime. Seemingly unaffected by his casual rejection, Jolene walked across the kitchen and sat at the table, propping her feet up on the chair next to her as Darius launched into a full account of his day. He finished his drink and poured another while we asked him questions about the lady who forced her ten-year-old son to wear pink even though he was made fun of at school.
“I got a text from Rachel today,” he said, finally, pulling a bottle of gin from the cabinet. Rachel, that was a name I’d never heard. I glanced at Jolene, who was picking at her nails. Her face was neutral, giving me no indication of who this Rachel girl was.
