day three :: making mac-n-cheese

the prompt: this one didn't have an official prompt, but it was fluffy and in my novel, so what the llama.

When I wake up, Max is gone. The house is dark and there’s a noise of banging pots and pans in the kitchen. Charlie, I think. I sit up and rub my eyes groggily. As I walk to the kitchen, I run my fingers through my hair, removing the little tangles. I blink uncertainly in the brightness of the kitchen. “Charlie?”

A dark head pops up from under the island counter. “Oh hey, Liv.”

Not Charlie, Max. “I thought you were gone.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Trying to get rid of the person who was your pillow for the better part of four hours? Nah, I just got hungry.”

He’s a teenage boy and he’s hungry. What’s new? “Whatcha making? And I wasn’t trying to get rid of you.”

He pulls out a large saucepan. “Mac-n-cheese. For some reason artificially colored cheese sounded really good to me. Nothing like eating florescent orange food.” He glances over at me. “And you so were.” He smiles his lopsided smile, half of his face curving upwards. He’s teasing me.

“You can’t just call it ‘mac-n-cheese,’ Max,” I deadpan. “It’s macaroni and cheese. It sounds better that way.”

He fills the pan with water and quirks an eyebrow at me. “Is that so? Well then, Miss Anderson, I guess I’ll be eating this mac-n-cheese  on my own.” He stresses his pronunciation of the words to prove a point.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m not hungry anyway.” Of course, my traitor stomach lets out a deafening gurgle at that precise moment.

“Really?” asks Max, mouth twisting in such a way that I know he’s trying not to laugh. “Because that sounded like a hungry belly.” He hops up onto the counter and pats next to him. I laugh and join him, hands folded against my stomach in an attempt to keep it from growling again.

“You do know how to make mac-n-cheese, right?” I ask. “Because I lied. I really am hungry.”

He holds my hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, feigning shock. “Did you just call it mac-n-cheese?”

I look guilty at my slip up. “Okay, maybe I do call it mac-n-cheese instead of macaroni and cheese.”

day two: domestic life.

the prompt: domestic life, cleaning things, folding laundry, watching movies.

 I watch as Liv jerks a pair of jeans out of the basket and aggressively folds it before basically throwing it onto the ground. “Whoa there,” I say. “What’s the laundry ever done to you?”

She turns up the volume on the television and pulls out more clothes to fold. “I’m so freaking tired of never ending chores.”

I take a pile of clothes from the basket and sit on the opposite side of the sofa. She’s watching What Not to Wear again, despite having a billion of them taped already. “Can you explain this show again? I still don’t get the point.” I pair socks and then fold two of Liv’s favorite t-shirts.

“Stacey and Clinton take someone who has horrible taste in fashion and then teach them how to dress properly,” she says, not taking her eyes off the TV. She knocks over a pile of folded laundry and swears. “I just want to be done with this.”

“We still have the dishes and vacuuming to do when we’re done with this,” I say cheerfully.

Liv ignores me and folds another pair of jeans. She stares straight ahead at the television and acts as though I haven’t spoken. “What the heck is she wearing,” she mutters under her breath. “It looks like Tinkerbell barfed glitter and sprinkles on her.”

I glance at the TV. “What do you mean? I think she looks fine.”

She glares at me. “You have got to be kidding, Max. That woman does not know how to dress herself if she’s twenty-seven and still going around looking like a two year old who wants to be a princess.”

I shrug and fold the last pair of socks. “I figure it’s her choice if she wants to look ridiculous.”

“You look like an oversized pixie,” says Stacey on the TV.

Liv throws me a triumphant look that says ‘I told you so.’ I smile brittlely and chuck a pair of socks at her. It bounces off her forehead and then lands on the floor. She turns to face me slowly. “Benson,” she says. “You. Are. Going. Down.” She picks up a whole pile of laundry and throws it at me.

Her favorite ‘I heart NYC’ sweatshirt slaps me in the face and I let out a rather unmanly, erm, squeak. “Liv!” Something heavy lands on my stomach and my breath is stolen from me. “Oof!” She starts tickling me. “No, no, not the tickling,” I say between laughs. “L-iv!”

I squirm off the couch in an attempt to get away and curl into a ball. She pauses and I take a deep breath. “Do you surrender?” she asks.

“Yes!” I say. “Yes, just let me up, woman.”

She moves and I sit up. The credits are playing at the end of the episode and the living room is destroyed. “Well,” Liv says. “I guess we still have to fold the laundry.”