Spatulas

A winter afternoon spent in bed, the arthritis in my hip hurting and me too lazy to find the Advil. Rosie sleeps with me, jamming her spine into my shoulder. Ah. Heavenly. My houseful of company has gone, bed is where I am headed. Lovely. My sister Eliza calls. How was my date? she asks. “It was wonderful,” I tell her, “but he’s not interested in another.” Eliza knows not to ask too many questions. It took me two days to get over Luther, and it’s already boring.

She is going to watch a movie but won’t tell me its name because she says she likes chick flicks and is too embarrassed to tell me which ones.

“How can you be embarrassed,” I say, “when you know I have watched every Transporter movie five times?” I love Jason Statham. She still refuses to tell me. We are both yawning during our conversation, a lot of yawns, like something fluid we are both bathing in, or tennis. “I am going to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” I tell her and she says maybe she will too and I say “I’m up to Spike, oh yum,” and she says she meant the movie. She doesn’t watch series because they would keep her up too late.

We hang up. I go upstairs to check my email (nothing) and climb into bed, but the phone rings and I rush downstairs to pick it up. It is my sister again.

“Do you know what I’m doing instead of watching a chick flick?” she asks.

“What?” I say.

“I am looking at spatulas on Amazon. There are thousands of them, and they all have hundreds of ratings,” and she starts her hysterical laugh, the one I love, and she goes on, “and I’m reading every one,” more laughter. “It’s so hard to find a flexible spatula,” she says, her voice rising a little, and I am laughing now and thinking actually I have a flexible one and maybe I can find one for my sister for Christmas, and she is saying, “They are all so stiff,” and then we both collapse in hysterics.