simple home-cooked dinner. She was like, “oh,” and got up to do the dishes. I figured it didn’t quite register with her. The next day though she came home from the farmer’s market with the most triumphant looking onion I ever saw. The skin was a deep uniform brown, emitting a pleasant crinkle when touched. She peeled the onion back, the flesh inside a ghostly pearlescent orb. She sliced it up raw, thick white rings coiling out on the wooden cutting board. Then she put it between two pillowy slices of homemade white bread. She finished it off with a healthy slathering of European style butter and a dusting of garlic salt. We chopped it in half and climbed onto our roof top with a couple Tecate tall boys with lots of lime and Cholula, eating our onion sandwich under a purple sky, DTLA glittering in the middle distance. I bet you’re waiting for me to tell you how delicious that sandwich was. To be completely honest the sandwich was fucking disgusting, the butter greasy and the raw onion stang our eyes. Kissing with gnarly onion breath is not for the faint of heart, but it definitely felt like some sort of unholy matrimony, our souls irreversibly intertwined with an equally unholy sandwich. Since that day, I had considered the two of us pretty much married.
I was polishing my dumpy old Ford Fiesta in the driveway later that Sunday when I heard Pistil screaming at me from inside. “LEIF TANAKA GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE NOW!” I kicked off my shoes and sprinted through the hallway to see Pistil, still mostly wet and clutching a towelaround her chest. Potato panted stupidly at her feet, the shower still running in the bathroom, steam billowing out. I was kind of stressed about the idea of wasting water in this drought, but I