“I said, wait.”
He looks up at me with so many eager eyes.
“Okay, okay,” I tell him. I open the door and get the crickets.
When he sees them, he squeaks with excitement.
“Not all at once,” I say.
At least I’m not totally alone. At least I’ve got Ralph.
But as I watch him hunt one of the crickets, as I watch him devour it, slurp up its juices, a chill slithers up my back and wraps itself around my neck.
* * *
—
I embrace the next morning with all the enthusiasm of a goat entering Jurassic Park.
I do my best to rally, to put on a decent outfit and use concealer on the zit that has appeared on my forehead, the approximate size of a demoted planet.
I go to the Starbucks drive-through in Aster for coffee. Whatever I get, it’s 50 percent caramel and I’m not complaining.
The day is benevolent and moves quickly. When I get home, I take out all of my ingredients and spread them across the counter. I watch several YouTube videos on how to cook beets for the salad. It’s more involved than I had anticipated. Salads are always too involved.
“No, this is good,” I say, scrubbing the beets. “Cooking is relaxing.”
Roughly ninety minutes later, my kitchen is a catastrophe. I’m dripping sweat. My purple beet-stained fingers are covered in Band-Aids, but I have a lovely three-course meal prepared and a sense of accomplishment.
I’ve never understood why people take pictures of their food, but . . . here I am. I grab my phone and snap a few photos to commemorate the occasion.
For your pathetic moments scrapbook? a malevolent voice asks me.
I tell it to fuck off.
I set the table and pour myself a glass of Pellegrino.
“Still or sparkling?” I ask Ralph.
He doesn’t get the joke.
“Crickets later,” I tell him.
He rubs his front legs together.
I sit down to dinner. I put on some Icelandic folk music, then change my mind and play Fiona Apple.
I admire the salad for a moment before attacking it with my fork.
“It’s good!” I tell Ralph a few bites in.
He’s pleased to hear it.
He’s not eating with me. He’s saving his appetite for the crickets.
I’m enjoying my risotto when the malevolent voice returns.
I wonder what Sam and Shannon are up to right now, it wheezes.
Probably not listening to “Criminal” while grating an obscene amount of Parmesan cheese onto their food and contemplating the texture of mushrooms.
The thought of them together gets me. It renders my food tasteless. It zaps the color from the room, the world.
I carry my plate into the kitchen and scoop whatever’s left into Tupperware.
I stand over the kitchen sink, staring at the Everest of dirty dishes that awaits me, and begin to chant.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.
“You’re good, you’re good, you’re good.”
I refocus my energy on decorating the chocolate cake with raspberries and cream. When I’m done, I put it down on the coffee table. The whole cake. I don’t bother to slice it. I’m honest with myself about what’s about to go down. I get a glass of milk and a fork.
I get the remaining crickets for Ralph. They died overnight, but Ralph seems happy to munch on their corpses.
I settle in to watch the Boleyn documentary.
I’m about to take my first bite of cake when I hear my phone chime.
I look over at Ralph. He’s busy with the crickets. He doesn’t even notice as I hurry into the kitchen, where I left my phone charging on the counter.
I want so badly for it to be him.
I hate that I want it to be Sam. That I want him to rescue me from this sad Valentine’s Day. From myself.
It’s not him. It’s Nadia.
Hey, girl, happy V day!!! There’s an excess of heart emojis.
I resent them.
Same to you, I reply. She and I text every once in a while. Most of the time, I’m happy to hear from her. Not right now, though. Not today.
Whatcha up to?
I step out of the kitchen. I look over at the chocolate cake on the coffee table, then at Ralph sucking on a cricket. I sigh.
She’s texting me only because she knew I’d be around. I’m probably the only single person she knows.
Hanging at home, I type. You?
Same! she replies.
It’s a comfort to know I’m not the only one.
Another text. I bought myself so much chocolate LOL.
My resentment begins to fade.
I made myself cake, I say. I send her a picture.
OMG!! Amazing!