It's Thursday night, which means it's Taco night. Jeffery and I decided to have it on Thursdays instead of Tuesdays because we like to think that we're different from people and we both understand the value of not being basic. To be honest, we hate people. Deep down we probably even hate each other. But even deeper down, we know that we hate each other just a little less than we hate everyone else. And so, we spend our days spitting on the incompetence and stupidity of the world together, because we both understand the value of doing things together. It's cute.
I'm dicing tomatoes when Jeffery walks through the front door. He desperately releases a breath he has been holding since he left this morning and doesn't bother to announce that he is home. The opening of the door has already done that for him. I stay in the kitchen, not bothering to meet him in the foyer to welcome him back with a peck on the cheek. And we're okay with this because we both understand the value of being above all that bullshit. I gather up the tomatoes in a bowl and place it down on the dining room table with all the other fixings: ground beef, mixed cheese, shredded lettuce, and salsa. There used to be a spot on the table for avocado slices, but ever since the freakin' Avocado Revolution of 2015, we've decided to omit it. Jeffery was particularly adamant about striking it from our diet. He would not be associated with millennials who wore nothing but overpriced Lululemon leggings only to match their avocado toast aesthetic, taking up precious oxygen by doing nothing but sip on their Starbucks mocha-caramel frappe macchiato latte cappuccinos.
Even though it's just the two of us, we sit at opposite ends of the table because we both understand the value of personal space. And once we both have our store-bought tortillas in hand and are a good way into assembling our first taco, I ask Jeffery how his day went to which he replies, "good." He lets a pause linger in the air before returning the question, just before it becomes the silence becomes slightly uncomfortable, to which I reply, "fine." Fine can mean many things, of course. Most often it implies the exact opposite, inviting the other party to ask what's wrong, but in this case, it quite literally meant that things were nothing short of spectacularly average. Either way, Jeffery doesn't bother clarifying. He takes an uninterested bite out of his taco and tosses it around in his mouth a few times before asking for the salt. I slide the shaker along the table into his hand without looking up from my plate and the rest of dinner goes on without conversation because it's been an exhausting day for both of us, and we understand the value of finding refuge in comfortable silence while enjoying a good-ass taco.