"Hey, look, there he is," Priscilla robotically said, peeking over her glass of wine.
Max brushed the wet debris from his shoulders and beamed holes into Priscilla's head for a moment, not even looking in my direction. "Yeah, look at that," he responded to her cynically. "I would have been here sooner if I didn't have some maniac pulling out in front of me to steal my parking spot, nearly killing me, and then forcing me to circle around the building to find another spot."
"Maybe you should drive a little faster."
"I'll remember that the next time you're parked in front of me."
"I thought you were a gentleman these days. Isn't it ladies first?"
"Is that what we're saying you are?"
I stepped in between their bodies and shushed them. "Now, now, children, let's get along. It's Thanksgiving! Shouldn't we be focused on what we're thankful for?"
Max groaned. "I'm thankful my brakes were good enough to handle that abrupt stop on the icy roads, so I didn't collide into the building and suffer brain damage."
"Well, see, so you do have something to be thankful for," I said sarcastically and smirked.
"Cute," he responded with an equally sarcastic tone.
"Cheer up. If I can throw away my morals and my beliefs to prepare you guys a turkey, you can get along for the night."
"A meal that is burning, by the way," Priscilla noted as she slurped her wine.
"It's not burning!" I told her. "I pulled it out already. That smell is probably just an old french fry I dropped inside the oven that’s burning."
"Gross."
Biggie came strolling into the kitchen and hopped up on the counter next to Priscilla, and not long after that, the newest addition to my family also jumped on top, a little calico named Puffy. Priscilla screamed, nearly spewing her wine from her mouth. “Jesus Christ, they’re multiplying!” she exclaimed.
“Hey now, shoo, shoo, get down!” I yelled, and both the cats went running.
“I can’t believe you got another one of those.”
“Those?”
Max scoffed. “Jesus, Priscilla, it’s a cat, not anthrax.”
“That’s up for debate,” she cattily responded, and as though Biggie understood her, he suddenly hissed in Priscilla’s direction.
I looked at Max and said, “Biggie doesn’t like Priscilla.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” she added.
“Maybe if you didn’t treat him like some kind of abomination, he’d warm up to you.”
“Maybe if he hadn’t taken precisely fifteen shits in my bathtub when I babysat him,” she retorted.
“He goes when he’s nervous. It’s a quirk.”
“Taking too many shits is not a personality trait, Cora.” She took a sip of her wine, and under her breath, I heard her say, “It would explain your dating preferences, though.”
I shook my head. It wasn’t that long ago she was talking about wanting to drag her nails down Max’s back, but I think she liked to pretend I had a short-term memory.
I clapped my hands together and said, “Why don’t you guys sit down and try to warm up for a bit? Dinner is pretty much ready.”
Priscilla hopped off the kitchen counter and rushed to the table, bumping into Max’s shoulder and forcing him to move to the side. “Sorry, was that your seat?” she asked dryly, as she pulled out a chair and sat down.
I could see Max’s mouth open slightly and then close back up. For my sake, or so I assumed, he was refraining from saying anything.
Once the remaining food was prepped and everyone was seated, we dug into the Thanksgiving feast. Priscilla and Max devoured the turkey and the side dishes, and I stuck to the vegetables and roasted butternut squash risotto. I would have loved for them to join me in eating something meatless, but, eh, what can a girl do?
“Work must be pretty busy with winter starting up,” I said to Max.
“I’m up to my neck in it,” he confessed. Max had recently opened his very own store, and I was pretty excited about it. He sold a lot of camping, skiing, and wilderness equipment, and he was getting a pretty steady flow of business out of it.
“So the store idea didn’t flop?” Priscilla asked. “Color me surprised,” she added as she sipped her wine.
“Well, yeah, that’s what happens when you have cashiers and workers who do their job,” Max replied.
Knowing that was a dig at her, Priscilla faked a smile. “I’m just saying, don’t get too comfortable. Most new stores go out of business after a year.”
“Where did you get that stat, out of curiosity?” I asked.
She looked at me. “A magazine.”
“What do you do for a living these days, Priscilla?” Max inquired.
Priscilla went quiet for a moment, holding her glass of red wine in one hand and swirling its contents as her eyes were laser-focused on Max. “I’m blessing this planet by even existing in it, that’s what I do.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How does the turkey taste?” I asked, in an attempt to move the conversation. “Does it taste like well done murdered innocent animal, or should I put it back in the oven for another ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes wouldn’t have hurt,” Priscilla
