I’ve become a full-time babysitter of sort. My mantra: I don’t get paid enough for this shit.
It’s 7:00 a.m. and the Sonos system is blasting Requiem in D minor K 626.
I take a deep breath and crawl out of bed.
She’s in the kitchen making breakfast.
“That’s a little heavy to start the day, don’t you think?” calm and steady, I say.
“Oh?” she turns and smiles at me, “put on Pink Martini if you want.”
I pull out my phone and press play on Flight of the Bumblebee on Spotify.
She places a bowl of green goo in my hand.
“Organic goat milk yogurt, Swiss honey, pine nuts, crushed walnuts, golden kiwi, golden raisins, dried cranberries, goji berries, spirulina powder, matcha powder, wheat grass powder.”
“Wait, no chia seeds?” I ask.
“We ran out,” she shrugs.
“Fuck,” gotta do a grocery run.
She sits down opposite to me on a birch wood bench and watches me eat.
“Don’t you miss Cajun food?” she asks.
“Jambalaya. Gumbo. Hmm… fuck yes. But where the fuck do you find Andouille sausages in this place?”
“Google that shit, I guess.”
I’m not so sure…
