Getaway
SHE IS 4B.
Mariah Walker lives two floors above me and she might possibly be the best person to ever stumble into my life.
She’s good company; the best, actually, because she understands the things that irritate me without me ever explaining them to her. She’s like the female version of me in that sense, but not in any other. She’s amazing, that girl. She has got to be my best friend.
I had never even realized she existed until the windy night we met. I later learned that it was because she worked days at the Italian restaurant out by the mall. To think, I had been living below Apartment 4B for months and had never realized that my soul mate lived there.
When I say that Mariah is my soul mate, I don’t mean she is my lover. We’re not like that in the slightest. I mean that she is my other half, the person who complements my personality more so than anyone else I’ve ever known, and who I have never shared a dull moment with – despite the hours we have devoted to reading silently or listening to the classical tunes that remind me of my father in each other’s company.
I’m jumping ahead of myself, though. I tend to do that a lot. Mariah laughs about it – which helps. She’s teasing, but it doesn’t matter, because I find comfort in her breezy laugh. Somehow it stops the frustration that usually arises when I stumble over my words. That’s one of the ways she makes me better.
Like I said, she’s my soul mate.
* * *
“You can take the girl from the South but you can’t take the South from the girl,” I said, standing by Mariah’s elbow in her cramped kitchen. She grimaced, dropping a freshly coated piece of chicken into the sizzling oil. “Oh, c’mon, Mariah.”
“What?” she said, maneuvering away from me, tongs held in her hand, as I reached out, pinching her arm. She waved the metal tongs at me, snapping them twice, each snap followed by one of her soft giggles. I crinkled my nose at her and reached out again, gently tugging at the curly ponytail at the back of her head.
“Leroy!” She hissed, but she was still smiling, still giggling. “Don’t make me burn your chicken. Nothing is worse than burnt fried chicken.” I nodded, understanding. She went back to watching the chicken sizzling in the oil. I reached for her ponytail again, tugging. She just gave me a look.
Later, when we were sitting cross-legged on her 4x6 foot balcony, I took my first bite of true, southern Mariah Walker cooking. Flaky chicken skin melted in my mouth as hot juice oozed out over my teeth and tongue. A low, guttural noise escaped my mouth; chewing quickly, I went in for another bite. When I looked up at the girl with the curls piled atop her head next to me, her eyes were large and her smile crooked as she tried to not laugh at my response. I cleared my throat, setting my chicken leg on my plate for just a moment.
“You could have burned this chicken and it would still have been heavenly, Mariah. This is absolutely perfect.”
She laughed then, gathering a small scoop of mashed potatoes on her plate – these, however, had been Instant potatoes, courtesy of Idaho. She brought her fork to her pink mouth, looking over me at it. “You really have been missing out if you think my fried chicken is heavenly, Leroy.”
I smiled at her, my lips tight, and her crinkle-eyed smile met mine. “I sure have.”
She’s good company; the best, actually, because she understands the things that irritate me without me ever explaining them to her. She’s like the female version of me in that sense, but not in any other. She’s amazing, that girl. She has got to be my best friend.
I had never even realized she existed until the windy night we met. I later learned that it was because she worked days at the Italian restaurant out by the mall. To think, I had been living below Apartment 4B for months and had never realized that my soul mate lived there.
When I say that Mariah is my soul mate, I don’t mean she is my lover. We’re not like that in the slightest. I mean that she is my other half, the person who complements my personality more so than anyone else I’ve ever known, and who I have never shared a dull moment with – despite the hours we have devoted to reading silently or listening to the classical tunes that remind me of my father in each other’s company.
I’m jumping ahead of myself, though. I tend to do that a lot. Mariah laughs about it – which helps. She’s teasing, but it doesn’t matter, because I find comfort in her breezy laugh. Somehow it stops the frustration that usually arises when I stumble over my words. That’s one of the ways she makes me better.
Like I said, she’s my soul mate.
* * *
“You can take the girl from the South but you can’t take the South from the girl,” I said, standing by Mariah’s elbow in her cramped kitchen. She grimaced, dropping a freshly coated piece of chicken into the sizzling oil. “Oh, c’mon, Mariah.”
“What?” she said, maneuvering away from me, tongs held in her hand, as I reached out, pinching her arm. She waved the metal tongs at me, snapping them twice, each snap followed by one of her soft giggles. I crinkled my nose at her and reached out again, gently tugging at the curly ponytail at the back of her head.
“Leroy!” She hissed, but she was still smiling, still giggling. “Don’t make me burn your chicken. Nothing is worse than burnt fried chicken.” I nodded, understanding. She went back to watching the chicken sizzling in the oil. I reached for her ponytail again, tugging. She just gave me a look.
Later, when we were sitting cross-legged on her 4x6 foot balcony, I took my first bite of true, southern Mariah Walker cooking. Flaky chicken skin melted in my mouth as hot juice oozed out over my teeth and tongue. A low, guttural noise escaped my mouth; chewing quickly, I went in for another bite. When I looked up at the girl with the curls piled atop her head next to me, her eyes were large and her smile crooked as she tried to not laugh at my response. I cleared my throat, setting my chicken leg on my plate for just a moment.
“You could have burned this chicken and it would still have been heavenly, Mariah. This is absolutely perfect.”
She laughed then, gathering a small scoop of mashed potatoes on her plate – these, however, had been Instant potatoes, courtesy of Idaho. She brought her fork to her pink mouth, looking over me at it. “You really have been missing out if you think my fried chicken is heavenly, Leroy.”
I smiled at her, my lips tight, and her crinkle-eyed smile met mine. “I sure have.”
♠ ♠ ♠
Any responses would be nice.