Page 58 of The Way I Hate Him
“If that’s the case, start looking through your letters.”
“Ah, you see, if I were to do that, then I’d be pegging myself as an idiot.”
I pull out her baking sheets and line those up on the stove top.
“How would that make you an idiot?”
“Because I’m paying you, right?”
“Yes,” she draws out.
“So if I’m paying you, then why would I do a job I’m paying someone to do? Sounds pretty idiotic to me, but lining up this baking shit that truly is a pointless task. Now that’s something I can do to keep me from writing. See how it works?”
She stares at me. “You’re fucked in the head.”
I chuckle. “Us creative types always are.” Once I’m done, I set my hands on the counter and look her in the eyes. “Okay, what’s next?”
“What do you mean, what’s next?” she asks with a confused look on her face.
“We’re making cookies, so what’s next?”
“Uh,I’mmaking cookies, and you’re headed back to your studio.”
I pull on the back of my neck. “What did you not understand about the whole procrastination thing?”
“What do you not understand about me not wanting you to be nice to me?”
“I can call you a dick while we bake. Will that make you feel better?” Clearing my throat, I ask, “What do we need to start with . . . dick?”
She relinquishes. “No one says dick as an insult anymore. Be more clever.”
“What would you prefer me to call you?”
“I don’t know, not dick.”
“What is your go-to insult?”
She bumps my shoulder with hers, pushing me to the side as she picks up the butter and starts undoing the wrapper. “Make yourself useful,” she says, tossing me a stick of butter. I smile to myself, knowing she’s giving in to my procrastination technique. “And as for the insult, I go with the classic name-calling of anus.”
“Anus?” I ask, laughing. “As in a butthole?”
“Yes. It’s unexpected, rarely used, and gross if you actually think about it.”
“So is that what you want me to call you?” I ask.
“Ew, come up with something yourself.” She drops the butter in the large bowl she brought, so I do the same. She then unravels the cord to her hand mixer and hands me the cord to plug it in. Once it’s set, she gives me the hand mixer and says, “Beat the butter.”
“What do you mean beat it?” I ask.
She glances up at me in surprise. “Have you never made cookies before?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Your grandma never taught you?”
“She was busier teaching me proper guitar chords than allowing me in the kitchen.”
“Such a shame, think of all the baking songs you could have written if you had a touch of experience beating butter.”
