It was going to be all pillow fights and underpants. At least that's what I thought it was going to be like when a girlfriend of mine moved in for a month and a half. She moved in last Monday. That evening, in preparation for her arrival, I thought I'd try and con her into believing I was the perfect roommate. I began making curry and rice for dinner, I had cookies baking in the oven and I had the kettle boiling for Tea and Tears. Naturally I was doing 12 other things as well in various corners of my apartment. So when I began smelling burning I rushed to my stove's side. Nothing major, simply the rice frothing over and charring on the element. Pretty standard really. That's when the cookie timer began chiming and simultaneously the kettle started squealing. I began mashing buttons with my fist and dragging things off elements. Finally I took the stopper off the stupid noisy kettle, and plopped it down on the stove top, while making sure to drop my hand through the steam blasting out of the spout.
Oh the agony. It didn't look so bad. But it felt exactly like what it was: a first degree burn.
Naturally I stayed perfectly calm as I vibrated in a state of flux between watching the rice boil over a second time, running my hand under icy water and trying feebly to dial my Life-Line. I chose to relieve the pain via icy water. Then dialled my friend in hopes that her constant accident prone-ness would afford me some knowledge when it came to burns.
No answer. Panic. Internet Diagnosis. Doorbell.
My roomie arrived with some baggage and I just stood there stupidly while my hand continued to cook itself from the inside. I was useless.
In the end there was dinner and there were cookies so it wasn't a total disaster. We ate and I whined. The weekend arrived eventually after fun things like St Patrick's Day celebrations and subsequent hangovers. Over the course of the week, what started as just purple skin began morphing into what looked increasingly like the repulsive stages of frying bacon. I think it was Saturday morning when Roomie was in the kitchen eating her breakfast. I was flopped on the living-room sofa.
"Hey Zee . . . ."
"Yeah?" turning my head to face her
with a piece of charred bacon balancing on her hand "Who am I?"
Since Roomie's comedic attempt I have told her that when the scab does fall off I'm going to leave it on her pillow. That's more like the kind of pillow fight I'm prepared to have. She detests bruises, to the point of gagging. By the time I'm done with her, let's see how she feels about burns.