Honey Daiquiri
Weight gain is God’s way of telling me I’m married…
by Miniq Brown
Had Enough Honey?
I was thirteen when I first saw Whit. I was with my best friend Marimim (may she burn- you heard that story).
We were standing on the basketball court in the leisure centre my dad coached at and everything smelled like rubber. A woman I thought was his grandmother (sorry Aubrey) brought him in and spoke briefly with my dad.
‘Look at him.’ Marimim nudged me in the side; it was as if she was permanently on heat. ‘His eyes are gorgeous. I bet he’s got great abs.’
‘How can you even tell from here?’
‘He’s coming over.’ She shook out her long ginger hair and I tucked a few stray braids behind my ear.
‘Alright everyone we’re doing lay ups.’ My dad organised us in to two lines on either side of the rickety basket. A couple of kids went up first. They weren’t good and a sliver of cockiness ran through me, I liked the validation watching others fail brought me.
Then went Whit. He dribbled around to the other side of the basket and reversed it, the ball gliding off the backboard with ease and finesse.
‘Show off,’ I whispered to Marimim and hated him instantly.
I’m not sure when exactly this hatred turned into all-consuming love. I just remember being in year eight and hating everyone. The next thing I knew, Whit didn’t seem so arrogant. In fact, he was kind of shy and a little disarming. Sure he had acne, and weird teeth, he’d grow out of them (he did, thank God), but he was one of those strange boys who actually listened when I spoke.
We only saw each other at basketball. Away games were the best. Once we had to travel all the way to Brighton for a tournament. My dad, Bentley, and Roman were playing and Whit came over at six to ride down with us in the people carrier. Roman brought his horrendous plastic girlfriend Sapphire with him- mixed-race with fake blonde hair, coloured contacts, eyelash and nail extensions, short skirt, huge boobs- so naturally, at thirteen and just a little bit chubby I was immediately intimidated and feeling vulnerable, but Whit sat next to me and made me feel special and cool and not so much of a loser when I told Sapphire that I didn’t like the latest Usher album.
When we got to the stadium Sapphire insisted that I go to the washroom with her.
‘Ladies never go alone,’ she told me. Do ladies wear push up bras and unbutton their shirt to the centre? ‘So, the white boy’s your boyfriend is he?’ That’s what Whit gets for joining a ninety percent black basketball team in South London.
‘Um, not yet.’ I could feel my cheeks burning and I willed it away. ‘So, you and Roman been together long?’
‘Why, what’s he said about me?’ She dropped her lip-gloss from her pouting lips and turned her fake blue eyes on me.
‘Very little, I hadn’t actually heard of you until today.’ A little light went out in what I could see of her eyes and I wanted to take it back.
‘Honey is it?’ I could hear the disdain in her voice. I gave her a short nod. ‘Let’s go, we don’t want to miss the game.’ I sighed with relief thinking that maybe I had made a friend!
*
‘Whitaker Adams, what have I said or done that made you think it was okay to leave your stuff here!’ I call up the stairs sweetly, after I trip over the pile of clothes, his basketball boots, and his laptop bag strewn in the middle of the living room floor. ‘Was it tidying the whole house from top to bottom? Because I can see how that can be misleading.’
Whit drags his legs down the stairs, a towel around his neck, with a deep sigh and, God help me, an eye roll.
‘I’m sorry, am I inconveniencing you? I was just about to start fixing your dinner before I climb in your bed and let you get me pregnant, but if it’s too much to ask that you not drop your crap on the floor…’ I offer him a bright- fake- smile. Whit looks at me, the picture of innocence, his arms out to the side, face aghast.
‘I didn’t say anything?’ he defends like I’ve pulled a gun on him.
‘Okay. Just pick it up please,’ I finish with an encouraging nod. Whit shrugs his shoulders and lets out another heavy breath.
I walk into the kitchen to start cooking, I have a lamb shank and a ton of spices I’ve been looking forward to braising all day- and it was a long day. Uni was particularly cruel, two whole hours of Ratface’s lecture and trying not to kill myself every time she added an extra ‘thhh’ in every Spanish word. You’re not fluent Ratface!
I stop short the second I see the state of the kitchen. There are plates piled literally to my eyeballs, some clean, most dirty, but the way they are arranged there is no way to tell the difference. My cheeks flush with rage.
‘Whit!’ I shout. He materialises beside me like an irritable teenager.
‘What?’
‘What is this?’
‘Yeah, I was gonna get to it last night but I got tired, and…’
‘I get tired. Nearly every day.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘Then what are you saying?’
Another sigh.
‘You know what I’m gonna do one day, Whit?’
‘Win a sarcasm award?’
‘More like got to jail for capital murder.’
‘They’ll bring it back just for you?’
‘The way I’m planning on doing it. Hashtag merman, hashtag Cabin in the Woods.’
‘I’ll do it now,’ he breathes. This time I roll my eyes and leave the kitchen to bump into yet another infraction; Whit has dropped the towel from his post-work shower on the floor, right after I just asked him to pick up-
No, Honey. Don’t be that person. I am not that nagging wife, but must he do things deliberately to annoy me?
‘Are we out of washing up liquid?’ comes Whit from the kitchen.
‘I don’t know, look in the cupboard.’
‘Which cupboard?’
‘The cupboard we keep the washing up liquid in.’
…
‘Is there even a scour in here?’
‘Maybe it’s buried under all the dirty dishes.’
‘What do you need washed?’
‘All of it.’
‘I mean what do you use.’
‘… All of it, evidenced by the fact that it is in the sink.’
‘Can you just answer the question?’
‘I’ve been answering questions all day! About James Joyce and modern literature, I don’t have space left to think to answer your questions.’
‘How much effort does it take to tell me where the washing up stuff is?’
‘How much effort does it take to look!’
‘Can you just tell me?’
‘USE YOUR OWN BRAIN!’
I stand up and storm up the stairs. Seriously, I’m so glad I’m not American, because if there was a gun in the house right now…
20 minutes later
‘Are you mad?’ Whit asks when he finds me on my laptop in the bedroom.
‘What gives you that impression?’ I ask, turning down Nickelback’s ‘Side of a Bullet’ blazing through my plug in speakers.
‘I’ve done the dishes,’ he says sheepishly.
‘I don’t even care Whit. Get take out, I need to relax.’
‘Okay,’ he breathes sweetly. I roll my eyes, sure, he’s a frickin’ ribbon-wrapped kitten now.
‘You know what, I’m going in the shower.’
*
Shower water dries on my back as I slip Whit’s giant white basketball shirt over my head. I scrape my thick hair into a ponytail as I walk over to the mirror and lift the cotton wool pad flushed with toner to my face. I massage it over the ridges of my cheekbones in rhythmic circles feeling my pores respond and my skin breathe. Discarding the cotton wool, I pad on damp feet into the bedroom and perch on the edge of the bed, his side. I slide my legs up under me so my brown toes are peeking out, naked, ready, a blank canvas.
I retrieve the nail polish from the nightstand, a slim bottle, a neutral pink. I turn the lid and the smell of varnish fills my nostrils and makes the back of my throat tingle. Carefully, maternally, I graze the brush over each toenail leaving an even coat of colour behind.
At exactly the moment I finish I see Whit standing in the doorway. From the look in his eye he has been watching me for several minutes. I stare at him a moment caught slightly off guard.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Why do you do this to me?’ he sighs as he crosses the wooden floor towards me.
‘Do what?’ I giggle, trying to keep a stern face but failing as he reaches me and leans over me so I can smell his sweet, shower-fresh scent. My eyes lock onto his for a moment, mine deep brown and hazel, his deep blue and tropical, just before his lips grab a hold of mine. He manoeuvres himself on top of me.
‘Whitaker! You’re going to ruin my nails.’ He pauses a moment, his eyes never breaking contact with mine.
‘Don’t worry,’ he smiles briefly, ‘I won’t let your feet touch the ground.’
…
Sigh… I hate him so much. *Content face emoji*
*
