Free A Pinch of Ooh La La by Renee Swindle

I was saying; she just didn’t like the fact that I dared to open the door with a toothbrush in my mouth.
    â€œWould it be too much to ask that you not greet guests while brushing your teeth?”
    â€œYou’re family.”
    â€œThat may be true, but you look like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth.”
    â€œYou’re exaggerating.” I used my finger to wipe away a tiny dot of toothpaste on the side of my mouth. “Better?”
    She stood on the porch as though waiting for something else. It took me a second to figure out exactly what, and when I did, I bowed down low like a court jester before a princess. “Would you like to come inside, Rita?”
    â€œYes, thank you.” She kissed me near the cheek and stepped inside. She wore a soft pink coat and soft pink leather gloves and carried a soft pink handbag large enough for a small animal to climb into and live comfortably for years. She gazed absently around my living room as though, if she could, she’d quickly repaint the walls and rearrange the furniture. She meant no harm by her internal judgments; she simply thought her decorative and fashion skills were a benefit to all humankind.
    Rita’s husband, Doug, stepped inside next, grumbling about the lack of parking. He was a hulking six-four, and his height and girth immediately shrank my living room down in size.
    â€œThis is a surprise,” I said. “What gives?”
    He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t mind me. I’m playing chauffeur.” He brushed his thinning blond hair from his forehead and began checking his phone. He had a ruddy round face and gave the impression that somewhere behind his small blue eyes he was remembering a naughty joke.
    â€œMind if I turn on your TV?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    He found the remote and settled in with his arm stretched across the back of the couch. A sports commentator highlighted plays as whistles blew and men in tight pants and helmets chased a ball across a field.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œThat right there,” Doug said, playing along, “is called football. Those men in the red and white are trying to take the ball from the men in silver and black.”
    It was a running joke with Doug and the family that most of us knew absolutely nothing about sports.
    â€œGrown men chasing a ball,” I teased. “Very exciting.”
    â€œThat it is. I love my wife like nobody’s business, but football is more exciting than watching a bunch of men in tights leap across a stage; I don’t care what she says.”
    â€œDouglas,” Rita said halfheartedly. They both knew going into their marriage that Rita would never like football. Once a year, however, she dressed in her finest silver and black and went to a Raiders game, and Doug, who would never like the ballet, would put on a tux and attend the annual gala for the Oakland ballet, which he and Rita helped fund.
    He shot up and held his hand toward the TV. “Catch it! Catch it!
Yeah!
Curtis Randolph is killin’ ’em tonight.”
    Rita and I exchanged looks:
Silly game. Very silly.
    Doug was an investment banker with a gift for making money but no real interest in keeping it. He handed most of it over to his wife while using what was left for his favorite hobby, making his own beer with the original marque Doug’s Beer. Mostly he liked food, and he prided himself on his ability to put away three servings of Bailey’s gumbo and eat a cream puff from Scratch in two bites.
Speaking of which . . .
    â€œSay, Abbey, you have anything I can snack on?” Doug asked.“One of your chocolate chip cookies or something like that from the bakery?”
    â€œSure, help yourself.”
    He hoisted himself up and started toward the kitchen. I, meanwhile, excused myself to wipe my face and put away my toothbrush.
    When I returned, Rita was still standing in the living room. I explained