that white chick

I've been Couched.

Javier and Mike wrestled the couch upstairs into my newly tidied apartment. Once everyone had worn themselves out with the novelty of sitting and saying "ooooh", Mike packed Gavin off for their weekly sleepover night. Javier paused for a moment, then lunged for the television. He popped up the Mexican soccer game and held his hand out optimistically for a beer. I laughed, went to the fridge, and joined him on the new couch to watch the match. I did commentary. "Ooh! The guy is saying, 'dude ran down the field, he kicked! He's running the other way now! Kicks again and red guy gets the ball! Run run run run!' I am learning Spanish!" Javier hooked his arm around my head and muffled me. His phone dinged, with his free hand he flicked it open. "Sister's having a bbq. Her boyfriend is cooking - real southern black guy, that dude can cook. Let's roll."

We rolled. 

Trio of little girls dancing salsa; beefy prison guard singing falsetto to Gnarls Barkley over smoking ribs; women laughing over the rattle of the cocktail shaker; Javier swapping Vegas stories with his childhood friends. His buddy rubbed his face abashedly, "I don't know how I got up onto the roof, but I just wanted to take leak, so there I'm hanging to the side of the building and this security guard asks if I'm ok because the people on the street think I'm a jumper." I flicked on Futurama as I gnawed my bbq. "Where did you get this girl? She's darker than you are, bro. Hey, he making you happy? Treating you right?" I spit out my diet Pepsi. Javier patted my knee and smirked. 

Now it's Memorial Day.  Apple pie! Bratwurst simmering in Guinness, cheddar brats to burn our tongues off with molten cheese, fancy chips and dips. Just a three-person family to-do over a good movie and music, but with the notable addition of my fabulous COUCH!

couch couch couch