“He stepped down, trying not to look long as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.” -Leo Tolstoy
When I wake up the next morning, I almost forget that I am here. In his house. Err, in Kyra’s house I should say.
I walk into the closet, which is the size of our first dorm room, and flick on the light. Over the last two years, I’ve acquired precisely four new articles of clothing. Yes, I have a full ride scholarship but often times I’m left having to pay for additional required text books, not to mention other supplies and food, rent, my cell phone. I still haven’t saved enough for my own computer. Kyra graciously lets me use hers when I need to work on papers after the computer labs have closed. I have, however, finally purchased my own cell phone outright which feels like an accomplishment. But now, standing in front of the severely under filled closet, I realize that I need more clothes.
Kyra has tried to give me clothes over the years but I have refused. I want her to always know I am her friend because of her, not because of what she can and does offer me.
I decide on one of the three sundresses I own. I got it at a second hand store in Berkeley. The tag said it was $12 but after finding a hole in the hem, I talked the lady down to $8. I sewed up the hole at the craft store next door and the dress looked virtually brand new. It was light blue, a linen material with an empire waist and shorter hemline, resting just a few inches below my rear end. Kyra said I looked amazing it in; she was always telling me what amazing legs I had.
Truthfully, I didn’t like to look at myself much. I always felt awkward and uncomfortable when I did so I just avoided it. Even with Kyra constantly telling me what a knockout I was, I still never felt like it.
I put the blue dress on, the one-inch straps covering my bra straps perfectly. I pulled the brush through my hair, getting the tangles out, and draped it behind me into a loose ponytail. Like always. I slipped on my sandals-Birkenstock thongs that I had gotten at a yard sale. They looked brand new when I got them and now, after two years of slopping around campus in the hot sun, they were looking a bit worn out. But this dress and these sandals were two of my better-looking items, so they’d have to do.
I made my way down the stairs, bringing my phone with me. It was nearly 7:30 and I was hoping that Kyra would still be asleep so I could share a mug of hot coffee with Owen. Mr. Bolling you mean, my inner voice scoffed. Surprisingly I made my way to the kitchen from memory just fine. Marie was standing with her back to me, humming quietly under her breath, making coffee.
“Good morning, Marie,” I say, settling into the barstool. She whips around and I see that I’ve startled her.
Marie is not what I thought she’d look like, though I don’t really know what I expected. She is a small, round woman with ashen hair that is pulled into a messy bun at the base of her neck. She is wearing a tradition housekeeper uniform-pale pink dress and white apron. It’s all very traditional and it makes me smile because I think that this must please Mr. Bolling.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” I say, smiling and outstretching my hand to her across the counter. “I’m Elizabeth, I’m Kyra’s best friend. Roommate, too.”
Marie’s cheeks are round and friendly and she shakes my hand tightly before clasping them together in front of her.
“You’re such a beautiful girl, aren’t you? It is nice to have people in the house. Mr. Owen is always alone. Voices, more activity, it’s nice!”
Her face rests in a smile and it warms me to hear that we are welcome in the home rather than intrusions. Well, me, at least. Surely his own daughter would not be an intrusion.
“What can I make you for breakfast Miss Elizabeth?” she turns her back to me, continuing to load the coffee into the carafe.
“Oh nothing. Just coffee. But I can get it myself, really,” I cannot imagine having another person bring me anything.
“No breakfast? You need breakfast!” she exclaims, turning to the fridge and pulling a great many items out.
The truth is, I usually only have enough money for two meals a day and breakfast seems like the one to skip. I get coffee on campus and that holds me until lunch, where I buy a sandwich from the machine. Then I get to work at the ice cream shop and I eat, sadly, the old ice cream that no one buys. And when I feel quite sick like I can’t stand another bite; I return home and grab a premade salad from the kiosk in the student center. If I play my cards right, they give me a brown banana free of charge. As I say these things to myself in my head, I realize how terribly sad and pathetic my life is and a wave of sadness washes over me.
“What do you normally eat for breakfast?” she presses me.
“Nothing,” I whisper, feeling embarrassed.
Marie looks at me for a moment, her brow furrowed, then she smiles and starts flitting around the kitchen with great purpose. Minutes later Kyra is down, bags under her eyes, her wild curls in extra rare form today, sticking out from her ponytail everywhere.
“Good morning sunshine!” she beams, and despite looking hungover I think she’s actually louder than normal.
“Good morning. How was last night?” before she can answer me Owen wades into the room wearing dark colored jeans and a white shirt, this time a more casual linen type fabric, like my dress. The cuffs are rolled slightly and his hair is damp. He’s just showered. My body purrs.
“Good morning, ladies,” his accent surprises me again and the butterflies living in my stomach take flight.
Marie sets three mugs out and fills them all with coffee in an impressive single pour.
“Thank you, Marie,” I say, and she winks at me before sliding the other two their mugs.
“Marie, whatever you are making smells AH-MAY-ZING,” sings Kyra, who is now on her feet at the freezer, pulling ice cubes out of the machine. She always adds a few cubes to her coffee and I’ve learned to find it endearing. Even when she’s fishing ice out of my cup in the cafeteria on campus, it’s funny. She looks to me where I am watching her with a smirk.
“You know I don’t like it too hot!” she laments.
Marie pushes a plate of food to me, the heat radiating up and warming my neck and chin. It is glorious. Scrambled eggs, some sort of sausage that is leaving orange grease behind, a thick piece of toast slathered in butter, a bowl of fresh fruit sprinkled with granola and lastly, a huge cinnamon roll. It is only now that I realize I have always been hungry for breakfast; I just haven’t allowed myself to feel it since I knew I couldn’t have it. Owen is there, or else I’d be tearing into the food like a starving child. I haven’t had a cinnamon roll since I was six years old and my mom stole one from the grocery store bakery for me for my birthday. I shake away the unwanted memory that comes flooding back and pick up my fork, lying my napkin in my lap.
“This looks amazing, Marie. Thank you, really,” I say before taking a bite of eggs with the mysterious meat. My taste buds come alive. Seriously. The eggs are creamy and soft and the meat has so much flavor-and kick- that I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I swallow my first bite so that I don’t talk with my mouth full and then I gush to her.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten, seriously. What is this?” I hold up a piece of the meat on my fork and eye it with wonder. The juiciness, the flavor, the way it goes so well with the smooth eggs. It’s so good.
“You’ve never had chorizo before?” Kyra gawks at me.