I walk into Dochechka’s apartment to find her in a partial state of readiness for our lunch date. I perch myself just outside her bathroom door so I can moan, rub my empty belly and give her my best pouty hungry face.
“I’m almost ready, I swear. Just give me a few secs,” she says as she takes a blowdryer to the last few locks of her wet hair.
[Sigh heavily.] [Roll eyes.] “GAWD. You’ve had FORTY FIVE MINUTES to get ready!”
“I know, sorry. I’m running a little late.”
Moments pass. More hair is blowdried. Then, hair is curling ironed. Hairsprayed. Still more hair is curling ironed. Repositioned. Curling ironed again…
“You wanna know what I think? I think your hair looks hungry. I think it could really use a tuna melt sandwich right about now.”
“Yeah. Look at it. It’s crying out for nourishment!”
“Okay, okay. But, really quick…” she runs into her room and emerges in a different shirt, “Do you think this shirt goes better with this sweater?”
“You wanna know my honest opinion?”
“I think either shirt will go with the sweater at this point because your sweater wants a tuna melt so damn bad it doesn’t even CARE what shirt you wear with it.”
“Fine. Let me just put on a matching necklace.”
“You wanna know which necklace I think you should wear?”
“The one that wants a tuna melt sandwich?”
“Have I mentioned how annoying you are?”
“Have I mentioned how bad I want a tuna melt sandwich?”