“The problem with Chemistry,” Andrea says matter-of-factly waving a spoon, “We ain’t got any.”
“No?” I drop a ham-salad-covered fork back into the bowl. I’m not hungry anymore. “When did you decide that? Somewhere between chopping up the tuna and dumping in the mayonnaise?”
“Pretty much. It first came to me draining water out of the can. I didn’t quite formulate it completely until stirring the mayo just now.”
The pronouncement is typical. One of many she graces me with daily. Only dangerous if she sticks on it, as she occasionally does.
“I see.”
“You’ve got ham,” she points at my sandwich fixins by way of explanation, “I’m a tuna-girl.”
“I see.” I wipe my face with my sleeve, “We’re regular Montagues and Capulets. Oil and water.”
Silence. This one may just stick. Stick like the mayo in my mustache. Mayonnaise is a sticky thing. An emulsion of oil and vinegar, invented in the kitchen of the Duke of Richelieu in 1756 for a feast celebrating the defeat of the British at Port Mahon. The sauce of Mahon substituted olive oil for the cream which was in short supply.
“You’re hurt.” She purrs at my distraction.
“No, no.” I sigh, “The Chemistry is on your side. Who am I to be hurt?”
Mayonnaise is a colloid, a forced mixture of liquids that normally can't be combined. Oil and water is the classic example. We are another. I try to slowly add myself into her life, one day, one date at a time slowly whisking in my lovable qualities in hopes to disperse and suspend tiny droplets of me into her immiscible, unmixable soul.
“But, you think there is more to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Opposites attract. Isn’t that a thing?”
“Meh. Cliché.”
“Of course. I just thought we could, you know—”
“Fuck?”
“Maybe. Or kiss. Something.”
She frowns, “No. I don’t think so.”
“I like egg salad, too!”
She shrugs.
Stupid. Eggs are the great emulsifier. We have nothing to work with. No eggs, no gelatin, to bind us. We are a heterogeneous mixture temporarily suspended together. I give in to the Chemistry.
“It just seems so final a thing to happen. We are done. Before the toast even pops.”
“It just did. And, yes. Done.”
“Decided across the table. By you. Alone.”
“So it seems. We’ll be friends though.”
“No. My friends and I are open to the universe and its possibilities.”
A pathetic jab which bounces off.
“No. You’re a ham salad eater. A small man in a small world.”
“A kiss goodbye isn’t going to happen, is it?”
“No. Why? You leaving?”
“I’m afraid, yes.”
Oil and water split. We split.
I’ll drop to the bottom, dregs cast aside. She’ll float to the top to be scooped up and added to some other sweet concoction.
“I am a little afraid too.” She muses.
“Why worry?”
“No reason. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
I sigh. Cream floats to the top. Of course, so does shit. That’s Chemistry.
“No?” I drop a ham-salad-covered fork back into the bowl. I’m not hungry anymore. “When did you decide that? Somewhere between chopping up the tuna and dumping in the mayonnaise?”
“Pretty much. It first came to me draining water out of the can. I didn’t quite formulate it completely until stirring the mayo just now.”
The pronouncement is typical. One of many she graces me with daily. Only dangerous if she sticks on it, as she occasionally does.
“I see.”
“You’ve got ham,” she points at my sandwich fixins by way of explanation, “I’m a tuna-girl.”
“I see.” I wipe my face with my sleeve, “We’re regular Montagues and Capulets. Oil and water.”
Silence. This one may just stick. Stick like the mayo in my mustache. Mayonnaise is a sticky thing. An emulsion of oil and vinegar, invented in the kitchen of the Duke of Richelieu in 1756 for a feast celebrating the defeat of the British at Port Mahon. The sauce of Mahon substituted olive oil for the cream which was in short supply.
“You’re hurt.” She purrs at my distraction.
“No, no.” I sigh, “The Chemistry is on your side. Who am I to be hurt?”
Mayonnaise is a colloid, a forced mixture of liquids that normally can't be combined. Oil and water is the classic example. We are another. I try to slowly add myself into her life, one day, one date at a time slowly whisking in my lovable qualities in hopes to disperse and suspend tiny droplets of me into her immiscible, unmixable soul.
“But, you think there is more to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Opposites attract. Isn’t that a thing?”
“Meh. Cliché.”
“Of course. I just thought we could, you know—”
“Fuck?”
“Maybe. Or kiss. Something.”
She frowns, “No. I don’t think so.”
“I like egg salad, too!”
She shrugs.
Stupid. Eggs are the great emulsifier. We have nothing to work with. No eggs, no gelatin, to bind us. We are a heterogeneous mixture temporarily suspended together. I give in to the Chemistry.
“It just seems so final a thing to happen. We are done. Before the toast even pops.”
“It just did. And, yes. Done.”
“Decided across the table. By you. Alone.”
“So it seems. We’ll be friends though.”
“No. My friends and I are open to the universe and its possibilities.”
A pathetic jab which bounces off.
“No. You’re a ham salad eater. A small man in a small world.”
“A kiss goodbye isn’t going to happen, is it?”
“No. Why? You leaving?”
“I’m afraid, yes.”
Oil and water split. We split.
I’ll drop to the bottom, dregs cast aside. She’ll float to the top to be scooped up and added to some other sweet concoction.
“I am a little afraid too.” She muses.
“Why worry?”
“No reason. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
I sigh. Cream floats to the top. Of course, so does shit. That’s Chemistry.
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