HOME | DD

Description

I trudged through the next morning, leaving the box on my nightstand and trying not to think about it. Physically I left it at home while I attended class, but it was always in the back of my mind. I was frustrated with myself, the box, and whoever gave it to me. It was affecting my attentiveness in class,I had hardly slept the night before, and I was constantly puzzling over it until I had a headache. Someone gave me this mysterious gift, it was now controlling my life, and I was letting it!
When I finally got home, I immediately grabbed the box, sat on the couch, and looked at it, as if trying to stare it down. It was beautiful, and though I’d told Brandon that it worried me, my instincts told me it was sweet and sincere, rather than stalkerish. I reasoned with myself. It was a gift to me, so it’d be rude not to wear it. I also knew that I really wanted to wear it. Eventually, I couldn’t resist trying it on.
That, more than anything, convinced me that there were genuine feelings behind the gift. It was perfect for me. It accentuated my hair and eyes, and even the length of the chain was perfect, handing right over the middle of my breastbone, and it was cool against my skin. I pressed my fingertips against it, feeling the gems in its surface, smiling crookedly at my reflection. With a sigh I reached to unclasp it, but my fingers stopped short, hovering over the nape of my neck. I glanced at my reflection again, and slowly lowered my hands to my sides.
“Well, a little longer can’t hurt.” I muttered, rationalizing with myself.

~~~~~

An hour later found me in the kitchen, , dicing vegetables for my specialty: chicken soup. I was working on some particularly mean onions when Brandon came home. He entered the kitchen and climbed onto one of the barstools that faced the stove embedded in the kitchen island, dumping his backpack on the stool next to him.
“Alright! It’s chicken soup night! I totally forgot!” He cheered.
I looked up abruptly, eyes frantic. “You forgot?! You were supposed to bring home chicken from work!”
Brandon worked at an old style deli with Alan (Alonzo, but Alan) Santorelli, a fourth generation owner of his family’s business. The butcher shop had been started by his great grandfather, and they still did things the old-fashioned way. Their meats tended to be a little more expensive, but Brandon worked hard, and Santorelli never charged him full price. At the bottom line, it was pennies more expensive than supermarket meat, but of better quality, so it worked out. That, and I was always happy to give business to the jovial Santorelli business in a time where butchers were a dying breed.
“Brandon!” I moaned, “I told you to pick that up like, five times! Now I’ll have to run and get some and dinner’ll take forever!”
“Down girl! I didn’t forget the chicken, I just forgot which of your marvelous recipes is was going into!” He Said, reaching into his backpack and chucking a heavy brown paper parcel onto the counter with the expected meaty thud.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I huffed, still peeved over my brief panic.
“You lie.” He laughed. “I know you. Flattery concerning your cooking gets me everywhere.”
I refused to justify that with an answer, so I ducked my head and went back to my onions. He watched me as I worked, and we chatted, letting the conversation wander. Brandon had long since stopped offering to help me. I didn’t always like doing the work, but Brandon would be the first person to admit that he was the kind of person who could charcoal Easy Mac©.
“So, you’ve crossed over to the dark side.” He noted suddenly.
“Huh?” I asked, utterly confused.
“The necklace? “
“Oh... right.”
“It looks good on you.” He said, something I couldn’t identify present in his voice.
“I know.” I admitted.
There was an odd, unexplainable silence that stretched on uncomfortably for several minutes before he abruptly changed the subject by pulling out a textbook and complaining about the work he had to do. Eventually though, the barstool got to be uncomfortable for him, to work at, and he moved to sit at the coffee table in the living room. Happy to be alone with my cooking, I returned to dicing my ingredients.
Once the vegetables were bubbling merrily away in the broth, I set upon the chicken Brandon had brought home. In one deft moment I pulled the package towards me, sliced through the twine and unfolded the wrapping. I crumpled up the brown butcher paper and set it in a corner of my cutting board as I diced the chicken and threw it into a skillet to cook before I added it to the soup.
As it cooked, I set about the task of scouring my cutting board and knife. No matter how many times I worked with it, raw chicken always disgusted me. It’s slimy, viscous texture and the way it squirmed under my fingers as I diced it always made me cringe. The fact that raw chicken residue was so dangerous when not cleaned up properly didn’t help my feelings, so I was obsessive in my cleaning of “contaminated” things. In the process, I also ended up doing almost all of my other dishes so I wouldn’t have to do so many later, mostly because I was waiting for the food to cook.
When it was done, I tipped the chicken slowly into the pot and lowered it to a simmer for a while to let the flavors blend. I washed and dried the skillet, not realizing until I’d put it down that I’d forgotten the ball of meat wrapping. I scooped up the slightly soggy, crumpled paper with distaste and pressed the foot pedal of my trash can. I was about to toss the paper in when I froze, staring dumbfounded into the garbage pail. Trash day had been a few days before, so the bin was mostly empty, save for the takeout containers from the night before and what little we’d accumulated over the day. Usually I didn’t make a habit of examining my trash, but something had caught my eyes. In a daze, extracted it with two fingers and held it up (Still over the trash can, of course) to better examine it. Even when coated with coffee grounds and eggshells, it was still recognizable as a twin to the wad of brown, chicken-soaked paper I held in my other hand.
You could almost see the connections being drawn in my brain, rapidly leading my towards the knowledge I’d been searching for all day. Images and explanations flashed through my brain almost quicker than I could register them. The brown paper-wrapped package in my mailbox. The same brown raw-chicken paper. Brandon’s employer’s butcher shop. Mysterious access to my locked mailbox. No, access to mine and Brandon’s mailbox. The way the necklace suited me perfectly. Brandon calling himself my perfect man. Him telling me there was a reasonable explanation for everything, and there it was. My best friend Brandon. Brandon, Brandon, Brandon. I let both clumps of paper go, completely oblivious to the fact that neither of them made it in the trash can. I briefly scoured my hand in too-hot water, not noting the temperature, dried my hands on a dishtowel, and wandered into the next room.
I stopped dead a few feet from the coffee table Brandon was working at. He didn’t look up, but his pencil paused as he waited for me to speak. “Thank you for the necklace Brandon.” I said gently.
“No proble-” He began, but suddenly the full meaning of my words struck him and his head jerked up to stare at me. He looked completely stunned, but also as though he were waiting for me to say more.
But there was nothing I could say. Any words I had were stuck in my chest, blocked by the swelling ecstasy ballooning there. I’d long had more than friendly feelings for him, but I’d kept it quiet, repressing them in the fear that unrequited feelings could permanently damage our friendship. I preferred to live with hidden emotions and Brandon as my friend than risk letting those out and losing him. I couldn’t bear to have that happen, so I kept myself on a tight leash. This moment was more than I ever could have hoped for. A few happy tears darted down my cheeks.
He pulled himself to his feet, moving slowly and deliberately as if I were a deer her was trying not to startle. He looked at me, clearly perplexed and unable to read my expression. His shoulders were tensed and her looked as though he were bracing his whole body against the possibility of rejection. I opened trembling lips to speak, but only found I still had not regained my voice. I stumbled and grasped for words, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a suffocating fish.
“Brandon... I- I’m” I forced out before I lost my words again.
He ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, his face reddening. After several moments, he slowly raised his head and gazed at me, his eyes like steel. When he spoke, it was abnormally stiff and alarmingly formal, something I recognized happened when Brandon was under a lot of stress.
“I’m sorry Amelia. Your silence makes it clear to me that this isn’t what you wanted. I apologize for putting you in such an awkward position. Goodbye.” He said, and with that he turned, grabbed his sweatshirt, and was gone.

Description

I trudged through the next morning, leaving the box on my nightstand and trying not to think about it. Physically I left it at home while I attended class, but it was always in the back of my mind. I was frustrated with myself, the box, and whoever gave it to me. It was affecting my attentiveness in class,I had hardly slept the night before, and I was constantly puzzling over it until I had a headache. Someone gave me this mysterious gift, it was now controlling my life, and I was letting it!
When I finally got home, I immediately grabbed the box, sat on the couch, and looked at it, as if trying to stare it down. It was beautiful, and though I’d told Brandon that it worried me, my instincts told me it was sweet and sincere, rather than stalkerish. I reasoned with myself. It was a gift to me, so it’d be rude not to wear it. I also knew that I really wanted to wear it. Eventually, I couldn’t resist trying it on.
That, more than anything, convinced me that there were genuine feelings behind the gift. It was perfect for me. It accentuated my hair and eyes, and even the length of the chain was perfect, handing right over the middle of my breastbone, and it was cool against my skin. I pressed my fingertips against it, feeling the gems in its surface, smiling crookedly at my reflection. With a sigh I reached to unclasp it, but my fingers stopped short, hovering over the nape of my neck. I glanced at my reflection again, and slowly lowered my hands to my sides.
“Well, a little longer can’t hurt.” I muttered, rationalizing with myself.

~~~~~

An hour later found me in the kitchen, , dicing vegetables for my specialty: chicken soup. I was working on some particularly mean onions when Brandon came home. He entered the kitchen and climbed onto one of the barstools that faced the stove embedded in the kitchen island, dumping his backpack on the stool next to him.
“Alright! It’s chicken soup night! I totally forgot!” He cheered.
I looked up abruptly, eyes frantic. “You forgot?! You were supposed to bring home chicken from work!”
Brandon worked at an old style deli with Alan (Alonzo, but Alan) Santorelli, a fourth generation owner of his family’s business. The butcher shop had been started by his great grandfather, and they still did things the old-fashioned way. Their meats tended to be a little more expensive, but Brandon worked hard, and Santorelli never charged him full price. At the bottom line, it was pennies more expensive than supermarket meat, but of better quality, so it worked out. That, and I was always happy to give business to the jovial Santorelli business in a time where butchers were a dying breed.
“Brandon!” I moaned, “I told you to pick that up like, five times! Now I’ll have to run and get some and dinner’ll take forever!”
“Down girl! I didn’t forget the chicken, I just forgot which of your marvelous recipes is was going into!” He Said, reaching into his backpack and chucking a heavy brown paper parcel onto the counter with the expected meaty thud.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I huffed, still peeved over my brief panic.
“You lie.” He laughed. “I know you. Flattery concerning your cooking gets me everywhere.”
I refused to justify that with an answer, so I ducked my head and went back to my onions. He watched me as I worked, and we chatted, letting the conversation wander. Brandon had long since stopped offering to help me. I didn’t always like doing the work, but Brandon would be the first person to admit that he was the kind of person who could charcoal Easy Mac©.
“So, you’ve crossed over to the dark side.” He noted suddenly.
“Huh?” I asked, utterly confused.
“The necklace? “
“Oh... right.”
“It looks good on you.” He said, something I couldn’t identify present in his voice.
“I know.” I admitted.
There was an odd, unexplainable silence that stretched on uncomfortably for several minutes before he abruptly changed the subject by pulling out a textbook and complaining about the work he had to do. Eventually though, the barstool got to be uncomfortable for him, to work at, and he moved to sit at the coffee table in the living room. Happy to be alone with my cooking, I returned to dicing my ingredients.
Once the vegetables were bubbling merrily away in the broth, I set upon the chicken Brandon had brought home. In one deft moment I pulled the package towards me, sliced through the twine and unfolded the wrapping. I crumpled up the brown butcher paper and set it in a corner of my cutting board as I diced the chicken and threw it into a skillet to cook before I added it to the soup.
As it cooked, I set about the task of scouring my cutting board and knife. No matter how many times I worked with it, raw chicken always disgusted me. It’s slimy, viscous texture and the way it squirmed under my fingers as I diced it always made me cringe. The fact that raw chicken residue was so dangerous when not cleaned up properly didn’t help my feelings, so I was obsessive in my cleaning of “contaminated” things. In the process, I also ended up doing almost all of my other dishes so I wouldn’t have to do so many later, mostly because I was waiting for the food to cook.
When it was done, I tipped the chicken slowly into the pot and lowered it to a simmer for a while to let the flavors blend. I washed and dried the skillet, not realizing until I’d put it down that I’d forgotten the ball of meat wrapping. I scooped up the slightly soggy, crumpled paper with distaste and pressed the foot pedal of my trash can. I was about to toss the paper in when I froze, staring dumbfounded into the garbage pail. Trash day had been a few days before, so the bin was mostly empty, save for the takeout containers from the night before and what little we’d accumulated over the day. Usually I didn’t make a habit of examining my trash, but something had caught my eyes. In a daze, extracted it with two fingers and held it up (Still over the trash can, of course) to better examine it. Even when coated with coffee grounds and eggshells, it was still recognizable as a twin to the wad of brown, chicken-soaked paper I held in my other hand.
You could almost see the connections being drawn in my brain, rapidly leading my towards the knowledge I’d been searching for all day. Images and explanations flashed through my brain almost quicker than I could register them. The brown paper-wrapped package in my mailbox. The same brown raw-chicken paper. Brandon’s employer’s butcher shop. Mysterious access to my locked mailbox. No, access to mine and Brandon’s mailbox. The way the necklace suited me perfectly. Brandon calling himself my perfect man. Him telling me there was a reasonable explanation for everything, and there it was. My best friend Brandon. Brandon, Brandon, Brandon. I let both clumps of paper go, completely oblivious to the fact that neither of them made it in the trash can. I briefly scoured my hand in too-hot water, not noting the temperature, dried my hands on a dishtowel, and wandered into the next room.
I stopped dead a few feet from the coffee table Brandon was working at. He didn’t look up, but his pencil paused as he waited for me to speak. “Thank you for the necklace Brandon.” I said gently.
“No proble-” He began, but suddenly the full meaning of my words struck him and his head jerked up to stare at me. He looked completely stunned, but also as though he were waiting for me to say more.
But there was nothing I could say. Any words I had were stuck in my chest, blocked by the swelling ecstasy ballooning there. I’d long had more than friendly feelings for him, but I’d kept it quiet, repressing them in the fear that unrequited feelings could permanently damage our friendship. I preferred to live with hidden emotions and Brandon as my friend than risk letting those out and losing him. I couldn’t bear to have that happen, so I kept myself on a tight leash. This moment was more than I ever could have hoped for. A few happy tears darted down my cheeks.
He pulled himself to his feet, moving slowly and deliberately as if I were a deer her was trying not to startle. He looked at me, clearly perplexed and unable to read my expression. His shoulders were tensed and her looked as though he were bracing his whole body against the possibility of rejection. I opened trembling lips to speak, but only found I still had not regained my voice. I stumbled and grasped for words, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a suffocating fish.
“Brandon... I- I’m” I forced out before I lost my words again.
He ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, his face reddening. After several moments, he slowly raised his head and gazed at me, his eyes like steel. When he spoke, it was abnormally stiff and alarmingly formal, something I recognized happened when Brandon was under a lot of stress.
“I’m sorry Amelia. Your silence makes it clear to me that this isn’t what you wanted. I apologize for putting you in such an awkward position. Goodbye.” He said, and with that he turned, grabbed his sweatshirt, and was gone.