Matcha and Ibuprofen

Lucy's medicine cabinet was stocked almost completely with herbal remedies and handmade soaps from her mother's farm. My bottle of Ibuprofen on the shelf beside a tin of homemade dandelion lip balm looked out of place. I took it out.

With the small bottle of pills in hand I decided to try the kitchen. But, of course, among her jars of granola, dried fruits, and unlabeled containers of various aromatic, varicolored powders, it stuck out even more. I don't think she'd care where I left it so long as it wasn't sitting out on her countertops, but I just couldn't sit it down next to her matcha powder in its pretty Mason jar with a pink cloth between the ring and the lid.

She cleared out a drawer in one of her nightstands, a small wicker basket in its tropical-feeling bedroom. Well, she almost cleared it all out. There were a few rings left in the bottom: gold bands, one with an opal in the center. Probably some that she made. I would often catch her at her little refurbished coffee table sitting cross legged on the hand-tied rug with a pair of needle nose pliers winding wire into an earring.

I dropped the Ibuprofen in the container along with the socks and toothbrush from the plastic Walmart bag in my left hand. I set the rings on her dresser.

Between the gaps in the wicker, I could see the glaringly white bottle of Ibuprofen and the neon green of my toothbrush. I balled up the plastic bag and shoved it in my pocket.

Lucy didn't like plastic. She was too afraid of the turtles dying or something. She didn't eat meat because, she'd say, if she wouldn't eat my pet cat, who was hissing from his carrier in the kitchen, she's not going to eat a cow. She exercises and does yoga every day, but she won't get a gym membership because their carbon footprints are too big and the guys at the front desk only have plastic cards to give out.

I like Lucy. I might grow to love her, but sometimes I wonder if it would be worth the work. She says she doesn't mind if I order a steak, but I can't do it around her. I hide my plastic packaging and pretend I don't need Ibuprofen and Tums to stave off my headaches and indigestion, using her herbal remedies daily and acting like they've cured me. She's too sweet to say no to and too gentle to hurt her feelings. Honesty is hardest with the people who are kindest.

I take my Ibuprofen out of the wicker basket.