Shelf Stability

“Does pancake batter go bad?”

she asked me uncertainly.

She sniffed the container and shrugged.

This did not fill me with confidence.

I’m not much one for one-night stands to begin with,

and her apartment isn’t the cleanest,

but it didn’t matter as much last night

when it was dark, and I was drunk.

She’s making a lot of noise in the kitchen now,

pots and pans clanging,

something drops with a metallic clatter.

Her male tabby cat eyes me with quiet disdain

and licks its paw.

If you want to leave, the cat tells me,

just leave.

She’ll hardly notice.

No, I tell the cat,

that is not how I want to conduct myself.

I’ll eat these pancakes,

I’ll eat them and say they’re delicious.

These ready-made batters,

they’re probably made to survive a nuclear war.

It’ll be okay.

I’ll eat these pancakes and tell her I need to get going,

but I had a wonderful time,

and we should get together soon.

I mean, outside of work.

Of course we’ll see each other at work tomorrow!

But I mean, besides that.

Like dinner or coffee or something.

She emerges from the kitchen,

wild-haired and apologetic.

“I burned the pancakes,” she admits,

“But I found this bottle of whiskey.

Wanna shot?”

Um, okay?

She brandishes a bottle, a quarter full.
It’s not a label I recognize.

Is the bottle made of plastic?

There’s a burning in my chest,

and I wince as I gulp it down.

“Let’s go take a walk, cowboy.

Put some clothes on

and let’s go get some doughnuts.”

This is framed as an order, not a request.

I’m going to have to pay for them too.

She did this all last night,

didn’t carry a purse or a wallet

and seemed surprised that she had no money on her.