The first time we met, I made grilled cheese sandwiches.
I wish I’d known he was lactose intolerant. He was a friend of a friend, and I was proud of my sandwiches.
Jim had brought Nate along because he was ashamed of turning up to ask for food alone. Jim and I were childhood buddies. We’d tried to date in high school, but nothing had come of it. We’d both burst out laughing in the middle of our first kiss; it had seemed so ridiculous to both of us. And that had been that.
Six years later, we were working part-time jobs, living in tiny apartments on our own, and trying to put ourselves through college. Though we didn’t see each other as much as we had planned to, Jim still turned up fairly regularly at my place in hopes of food. I resorted to sandwiches to save time and money. Soon, I found myself getting pretty good at it.
After I railed at Jim once about mooching off me, he felt mildly ashamed. Next time he turned up, he had Nate in tow, knowing that I wouldn’t shout at him in front of a stranger.
It was awkward at first. Nate was shy, Jim was voluble, and I was seething within but too polite to say anything in front of Nate. The three of us sat on the second-hand mattress in my living cum dining cum bed room (since my apartment had only one room, a closet modified into a kitchen, and a minuscule bathroom) eating sandwiches and drinking beer, which Nate had brought.
Jim hardly noticed that neither of his companions was saying a word. Soon, he stretched out on the mattress, talking dreamily of this girl he had met in his class and with whom he was in love, he was sure. I went to dump the empty plates and bottles in the kitchen. When I came back, Jim was asleep and Nate was looking distinctly green.
“Bathroom!” Nate managed to croak, clasping his hands over his mouth.
I pointed it out hastily. He leapt from the mattress like a gazelle in the African veldt and reached the door I had pointed out in two bounds. The door banged shut.
Horrible noises began to emerge out of the bathroom. I stood outside, unsure of how to feel. I wasn’t used to having strangers puking their guts out in my bathroom. Is anyone? Anyway, I was angry and upset and confused. Suddenly, I had an uncontrollable urge to laugh. The whole thing was so unexpected and weird and uncomfortable that it was oddly hilarious.
Nate emerged to find me laughing silently, my hand clasped over my mouth to stifle the sounds of my guffaws. He gave me a look of dire injury. I tried to stand up straight and look sober, but I only succeeded in bursting out laughing again.
Nate tried to look haughty. He looked ridiculous with his long hair, thin nose, round spectacles, and large eyes. He looked like a lost poodle, I thought. A lost poodle being sick in my bathroom, which I’d have to clean. That thought sobered me.
Nate said hoarsely, “I am lactose intolerant.”
It was the last thing I had expected to hear from a stranger. One just didn’t share such personal details with people one had just met. One politely apologized for inconveniencing them. But then, one didn’t laugh hysterically when one’s guest was made sick by one’s food either. So, we were even.
“I’m sorry,” I said, although I suspect it sounded more like a question than an apology.
I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to ask him why he had eaten the sandwiches if he’d known of this problem. I kept my mouth shut less out of politeness than out of a desire to keep myself from bursting out laughing again.
This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2.0
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