The movie version of my life would be called “The Invisible Man Is an Adequate Cook.”
Rahn picked up his EM from the disused kitchen table, unlocking it with a two-tentacle swipe to write this sentence in his notes app.
Uubi was in the next room smoking balibanaa from an improvised apparatus made of two drinking vessels. It was hard for one to hear the other, with the television and sounds of coughing and cooking.
But also Uubi wasn’t listening. He wasn’t ever listening, really. He’d said as much himself. “Especially when it sounds like you’re going to say something book-smart. I just kind of check out.
“Like, the answer to a question that starts with ‘did you know?’ is pretty much always ‘no’,” he said, settling back further in the couch and stroking his whiskers.
Rahn had felt seen in the worst kind of way. He reconsidered his title; perhaps he wasn’t really invisible after all.
But what was the word for largely ignored once evaluated?
Rahn smelled burning milk and saw his pot had boiled over while he thought. Moving quickly, he threw his EM down on the counter and turned down the stove.
He turned on the overhead fan to clear the white-gray milk smoke. “The Loved Man Is an Adequate Cook.”