It’s Sunday again and we wish each other a good morning. We are disheveled and groggy and in mismatched pink pajamas. “Patience is a virtue,” I tell you as I take a sip of my coffee, not waiting for it to cool. I complain that my throat burns and you ask when I’ll finally learn my lesson. I laughed because I knew you were going to say that. I make you a cup and apologize because I overdid it with the sweet cream again. You say that you like it that way. I know you don’t. You always sugarcoat my faults. Friendship is delicious.
We sit on the couch and talk about everything that happened this week. The scenarios are different each time, but the sentiments are always the same: school, work, things we said that we shouldn’t have, things we didn’t say that we should have, what went right, and what went wrong. Your face is in your palms. We laugh and move on. What do we need to do today? I tell you I ran out of mouthwash. You say you don’t need anything, but you’ll walk to the store with me. Off we go.
I oscillate between flavors. “Invigorating Mint” or “Clean Mint”. It’s more sustainable to be clean than invigorating, I state. But I would like to be both. You tell me I am both to shut me up. I am blushing in the pharmacy. It has been 15 minutes. “THEY ARE BOTH MINT. IT DOES NOT MATTER,” you shout.
You always tell me how it is. I choose “Clean” and we walk to the register. One second, I say as I race back to exchange it for the other bottle. You roll your eyes and crack a smile. I couldn’t help it. It was calling my name. You know how I am.
We bought two lottery tickets on the way out because you said you felt lucky. We didn’t win anything but at least we tried. I always tell you that it is better to know than to hope, although I’m not sure it’s the truth. But it’s the reason I always pick up on the first ring and linger outside the side door, and purchase more Jingle Buck scratch-off tickets than any logical person. I wonder if you admire my foolishness.
We hum and take the long way home. Hums turn into shouts about our current dilemmas. We always do this. You say you love the scenic route. The only real scene is the one we’re making. I ask you how you’re feeling about the new week, and you say you feel hopeful enough. I agree, and I know you don’t believe me. We try the new mouthwash. We gargle in unison. We spit out last week’s delirium on the sidewalk. Gross.
We arrive back home from our walk to the store feeling a little more human. I am glad we have each other. Thank you for walking with me. You know I would do the same for you. And one of these days we’ll figure out how to get everything we’ve ever wanted.