Insult to Injury by Gun Brooke

Author:Gun Brooke [Brooke, Gun]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781635553246
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2019-06-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Romi

The chicken casserole is among the best I’ve ever tasted. Looking up at Gail, I confess that her presence is the main reason for the way everything tastes. She sits there, still looking like her stern self, probably second nature to her, but unless my imagination is going nuts, she’s smiled at me three times since we sat down. That has to be a record.

I hope the damn soap I’ve used ever since I moved out isn’t too obvious. Of all things to worry about, and God knows I have a few, this is ridiculous. At least I know how to get to work clean. The gas station located in the outskirts of East Quay is conveniently on my way as I walk into town. Their restrooms are well kept and provide all the free soap I need. That said, I plan to make my way to one of the cheaper stores in East Quay and buy a better soap. My hair is blissfully short and easy to wash in the sink, but I hate how it feels when washed with cheap hand soap. Then again, at least I’m clean.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the chicken.” Gail puts her fork down and dabs her lips with a paper napkin. “Up for dessert? I have ice cream.”

Of course, true to my habit, I’ve wolfed down the food, despite my best intentions. I’m so full now, I’m ready to burst, no matter how delicious some ice cream would be. “Sorry, but I have to pass. The casserole was so good, I overate.”

“We can always wait a bit. Unless you’re in a hurry to go home?” Gail gets up and places her plate in the dishwasher. The machine is brand-new, which makes sense since Aunt Clara didn’t believe in redundant appliances. I washed a lot of dishes by hand, which was one of my chores I didn’t mind. Perhaps it sounds nuts, but I found the warm water against my hands soothing. Compared to the drying nature of the soil in the flower and vegetable beds, it was almost pleasurable. I know how pathetic this sounds, even to myself, and force my brain to change gears.

“Romi?” Gail rests her hip against the counter and regards me with a deepening frown. I realize she’s still waiting for an answer and scramble my scattering thoughts to try to remember what she asked just now. Ah. Yes.

“No, I’m not in a hurry. I don’t have to be at work until after lunch tomorrow.” I pick up my plate and place it and my glass in the dishwasher. “Thanks again. Dinner was good.”

Gail nods. “Why don’t you go into the living room? I’ll be there in a moment.”

“All right.” I walk into the room where Aunt Clara spent every evening by the fire—mending, knitting, or listening to the radio. I sometimes felt as if I lived in the forties, before the television era. I got to watch TV at a friend’s house once in a while, and

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