5. Michael

Michael

I was settling in to watch the last ten minutes of the Chicago Bulls game when I heard the swearing start. I wasn’t sure what the words were exactly, given that Olga was swearing in Ukrainian, but I’d spent enough time with her to know that she was definitely saying some things that would make a sailor blush.

She stormed into the room, looking a little crazy eyed. Her thick brown hair was a mess, as if she’d been digging her fingers in it, and her little hands were folded into fists.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

The endearment slipped out without my conscious thought. I couldn’t imagine what I had done to make her this mad, but judging by the mutinous expression on her face, my calling her ‘baby’ had just made her madder.

Technically, we were only roommates. Well, roommates with benefits. Mind blowing, life changing benefits. But there was the tiny little issue of me being madly in love with her. I just hadn’t worked out how to tell her yet, mostly because I wasn’t sure how she felt about me – if she loved me as more than a friend.

Olga was like a vault. She kept her emotions close to the vest. Except for right now. There was no mistaking the look on her face. My love was pissed off. And in a panic. The last time I’d seen this exact look on her face was in the third grade when a pigeon had swooped down and stolen her contraband twinkie right out of her hand.

Turning off the TV, I strode over to her and placed my hands on her shoulders. She wasn’t short, but she still felt small and delicate next to me. I gave her shoulders a small squeeze and waited for her to look up at me.

“Olga,” I said carefully, using the calming voice you’d use to talk down a guy trying to rob you on the sidewalk, something that happened from time to time here in Chicago. “What’s wrong?”

“My father is going to kill you. Slowly and gleefully, the way he learned in the Ukrainian military. Then my mother is going to send me to the convent. I’m going to be a terrible nun…” her words broke off in a high pitched wail that I’m pretty sure every dog in the neighborhood heard.

“Why would your father kill me? He loves me, and so does your mother. And I’m pretty sure your mother wants to keep you around too. Alona always says you’re her favorite.”

I’d spent many a happy Saturday at the Pavlenko household in the Ukrainian Village neighborhood, eating delicious ethnic food until I was too stuffed to walk. Olga’s mother was an incredible cook who was sure that none of us were eating enough. Every time I went over there, I had leftovers for days.

“They’re not going to love you now,” she said bitterly.

“Why?”

“Because you knocked up their unmarried daughter!”