An Apartment Dinner Scenario

I sipped whiskey for the first time in well over a month abroad. It slid, like napalm, through my innards. I was staring out our new window and admiring the view and feeling rather European about the whole situation; except for the whiskey. Whiskey always takes me home.

“What should we do about dinner?” I said, pouring another drink.

“What should we do? I told you to eat earlier at babcia’s. I’m not hungry.”

I grunted and shuffled through the fridge locating the kielbasa behind the bread and taking the bread as well. I fished in the breadbox for an onion and smartly sliced it. I sent the butter into the pan with the charge of frying the bread, kielbasa, and onion. As the pan began heating up the smell was permeating the apartment and my clothing and her clothing too. God, she hates that brand of smell on her clothing. I was ready for an issue to develop and took a strong pull of the whiskey. I could swear someone cut the whiskey with vodka. Maybe I’ve been drinking too much vodka.

“Can you shut the kitchen door?” I heard from the other room.

“Of course; you sure you don’t want any?”

“Uh huhh.”

I smiled and mixed my sputtering dinner pushing the door closed with the side of my foot. I turned the bread, now toast, with a fork and mixed the onions and sausage around. I was certain that bread, or potatoes, accompanied by onions and sausage were a king’s meal. I felt like a thief in a royal kitchen and had another whiskey to celebrate.

Our floor boards were old and worn and creaked when walked upon. The whole place has a feel of history to it and you could almost pretend you were watching 1940’s Poland from the warped and scarred windows. I chewed on that thought and on my food as well, taking special delight in the fried toast. Cleaving it with knife and fork, I admired my own cleverness.

The rugs were well worn too and threadbare at spots on the edges. I could imagine the many pounds of dust that had been ground into the fabric and knew that it could never all be removed. They were one and the same now, the dust’s soft gray history and the fibers of the rug. The rich smell of onions, butter, and kielbasa had recently joined that parade although I suspected it was not the first time.

I tidied up the kitchen and sucked down the dregs of my glass. I stood looking out the window, engaging my mind’s eye in a European exercise. I imagined the summer and I imagined teaching. I finished the bottle and read a few pages of Twain’s Connecticut Yankee. Now there’s a guy who’s got it together, thought I.

I sighed and climbed the stairs to the loft where my lady laid waiting.