“So there’s this customer I kinda like.” I told Mel as I scrubbed at the pegado at the bottom of the pot. I can’t believe how some people love this part. Pegado, pronounced “pe-gao-o” is the part of the rice that gets crispy and ever so slightly burnt and sticks to the bottom of the pot when you make arroz con gandules or any Spanish rice.

“Whenever you say customer I always picture a skeezy john in my head.”

“He’s not a john. None of my customers are johns, Mel– I’m not a prostitute. You know that right?” I turned and looked at her, holding the metal scrubber in my hand.

“I dunno dude. I’m not sure what you do all day.”

I turn back to the pot in the sink. “Well it’s not that, I’d be making more money if I was. No, it’s this guy that books stuff to Australia all the time.”

“Oh.” She sat down on the plastic chair by the tall table. “so, what kind of like? Like, like like?”

I shrugged. “Nah, it’s not like that.”

“Why not? Is he not cute?”

“Um, he’s all right I guess. I’ve only seen one picture. And it was from far away.”

“Oh. So what’s wrong with him? He’s got a girlfriend?”

“yeah.”

“Lame.”

I laughed.”Right? Everybody’s got a girlfriend.”

:”We don’t.” She corrected me.

“Yes, well I don’t like girls. We’re obnoxious. I don’t understand how lesbians even exist. How do they stand each other?”

“Boobies.”

“Damn. Boobies cover a multitude of sins.” I finally get all of the burnt rice off the bottom of the pot and reach for the final dish to scrub.

“Yep. As a fan of boobies i will admit this.”

I begin rinsing and setting the clean dishes to dry on the rack next to me. “Even ugly boobies?” I ask her.

“Define ugly boobs? I think they’re all pretty.”

“That cannot possibly be true. What if they have creepy nips?”  I hear her laugh behind me.

“What is your deal with nipples?”

I shrug again. “I dunno, I just hate when they’re like tiny and pink.”

“How many tiny pink nipples have you seen?”

“Enough.” I tell her.

“Are you self-conscious about your boobs?”

I look down at my chest. “Nah. I’ve got nice boobs. But this is beside the point.”

“What were we talking about?”

“this dude.”

“What dude?”

“The one you called a john.” I put the last cup on the rack and wipe the counter around the sink dry.

“Oh yeah. So what’s the big deal with this guy?” She gets up and opens the fridge. “Why don’t we have any food?”

“Because we’re poor and we’re one bill away from prostitution.”

“That’s sad.”

“I know.”

“Want some garlic toast?” She reaches for the bag of bread on the fridge.

“Totally.” I sit down in the chair she had just occupied. I look around the kitchen. Eventually we should get some stools or something for the table I think to myself. Real grown ups, do not have plastic patio furniture in the house.

Mel turns on the toaster oven and sets two slices of bread on a small cutting board. “So this boy. What’s so special about him that you’re bringing him up?”

“I dunno. He’s nice.” I watch as she spreads olive oil on the slices before covering them in garlic powder and salt. She looks at me and arches an eyebrow.

“You never bring up boys unless you like them.” She walks to the oven and places them on the rack inside and sets the timer for five minutes. “What’s his name?”

“Adam.”

“Adam what?”

“Mazur.”

“Mazur? what kind of last name is that? White dude?”

“Totally. He’s Polish.” She walks over to the dish rack and pulls out a small bowl.

“Like Poland Polish, or american Polish?”

“American Polish. He doesn’t even speak Polish.” I watch as she pours olive oil into the bowl and adds parmesan cheese. “Will you add black pepper?” She sighs.

“Okay. So why doesn’t he speak polish?”

“I dunno. ask his parents.”

“Okay. So what else? He’s not cute, he has a girlfriend and he doesn’t speak Polish.”

“I never said he wasn’t cute.”

“You didn’t say he was.” She counters.

“I think he’s funny. We talk all day. I call him tiger sometimes.”

“You like him.”

“Stop that. Flip the toast.” The timer on the toaster oven went off.

“Why can’t you admit that you like him?” She grabs an oven mitt and pulls the rack out so she can flip the toast over.

“Why do I have to like every boy I talk to?”

“Because you don’t bring up guys to me unless you like them and you want me to tell you it’s okay to like them.”

“I can like a guy without wanting to be on his dick, Mel. You make me sound like I have a one track mind or something.” I pause. “Don’t leave them in there much longer. I don’t like them that toasty.

“Another minute, then.” She grabs a plate. “Okay so tell me something more about this guy whose dick you supposedly don’t want to jump on.”

I laugh. I don’t blame her for doubting me. I fall in and out of crushes like a 16-year-old girl. I blame myself for discovering the cuteness of boys in the first grade. “Hmm, okay, he’s like 29, he’s funny, he occasionally misspells words, he’s tall, he owns a house, he’s a total suburbanite, he seems too lazy to own a dog, so he has a cat, I like his voice, he says he’s pretty shy in person, and I don’t think he knows what he wants to do with his life, but I find that strangely comforting as neither do I.”

She nods her head as I rattle off this list. She pulls the toast of of the oven and sets it on the cutting board. “You say he’s tall?”

“I like how that’s the only thing you pick out of the whole list. Yeah, I asked him how tall he was and he said six something or six feet. I don’t remember.”

“I’m just saying, cause I know how you are about height.” She brings the toast over to the table where I’m sitting and cuts each slice into four pieces. “Dig in.” I grab a piece and dip it into the olive oil and parmesan cheese mix. “Owns a house, eh?”

“Mhmm.”

“Under 30? No kids? Tall? Somewhat attractive?” She takes a bite out of her toast and chews on it. “He’s not real.” she says, with her mouth full.

I start laughing. “You think I’m making him up?”

“Kinda.”

“If I was making this dude up, he’d be single and he’d think I was pretty.”

She chewed on her toast as she thought about it. “True.”

We ate in silence.

“Should I put in another couple of slices?” She asks.

“Yeah. I’m still hungry.”