(Kit)
Stepping into the kitchen to see Rebel using a wooden spoon as a microphone as he sang along toEscapewas instant photo material. I snapped several and forwarded them to Steel so he could see what I’d walked into when I came to check on the status of supper.
He rocked to the beat while he flipped something in a pan, added a splash of something from a bottle and a dash of seasoning, then danced over to me and pulled me further into the kitchen so I could dance with him.
I’d offered to cook when I came back from wandering the beach to discover that Steel and Rebel were still elbows deep in the engine of the Impala, cursing a bolt they couldn’t quite get to. He’d chosen to clean up instead and rush in to take a quick shower because he knew just what he wanted to make us for supper.
I joined in on the singing when we got to the chorus because those were the only words I knew, while Rebel sang all the way to the end before telling the smart speaker topause.
It was a good thing too. With as high as he’d set the volume, I’d have had to shout to have a conversation with him.
“How’s it coming?” I asked.
“Just about done,” he replied. “Just need to find the other container of potato flakes, because I don’t think that will be enough.”
The narrow container on the counter held less than three inches of dried potato bits when Rebel picked it up and shook it before peering through the glass, like he’d hoped shaking it would suddenly manifest more flakes.
“Nope, not going to cut it,” he declared and opened a cabinet door. “I know I have another one around here somewhere. Give me, like, ten more minutes.”
“Sounds good,” I replied, sliding a hand up his back and leaning to kiss his neck before returning to the garage just in time to hear Steel yellgotcha!
My timing for picture-perfect moments was perfect today as I snapped a few of him triumphantly waving the bolt around after he’d extracted it and quickly sent them to Rebel before tucking my phone back in my pocket.
“Thought you were slick, didn’t you,” he said to it before setting the bolt aside in a tray.
“Are you done menacing the hardware now?” I asked.
He chuckled as he turned around and reached for an oil-streaked rag to wipe his hands on.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Depends on how the rest of the engine wants to act.”
I leaned over the hood and stared into an ocean of parts I knew nothing about. “You guys better behave,” I mock whispered. “He sounds serious.”
“I’ll show you serious,” he said, waving greasy fingers at me.
“Nope,” I replied, evading the hug. “Rebel said to give him ten minutes. That was about two minutes ago.”
“I’d better hurry up then,” Steel said, and hit the button to close the garage door.
I followed him in, turning to go back to the kitchen while he headed upstairs to get a shower.
This time, I wasn’t met with dancing. Rebel stood by thestove, a substance that was somehow both gloopy and chunky dripping from the whisk he held. Rebel cocked his head and studied one of the chunks before tasting it.
“Fuck me,” Rebel groaned and turned the stove off.
“Problem?” I asked as I stepped closer to get a better look.
Never in all the times I’d made instant mashed potatoes had I ever had any look like this. Instead of being fluffy, they looked like glue, but it was the color and the sheer number of chunks that completely threw me.
“What happened?” I asked as Rebel studied the contents of a canister.
Every few seconds he turned it a different way, frown growing as he opened it and tasted what was inside.
“A slight mishap,” Rebel said. “You wanna know what’s truly fucked up? That when they’re in canisters, mashed potato flakes and coconut flakes look almost exactly alike. It’s diabolical.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, as the image of him rummaging in the cupboard for a second canister of potato flakes popped into my head. “You didn’t.”
He just turned, looking sheepish as he set the canister back on the counter. “Oops. Definitely coconut.”