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the history of man that doesn’t call for double choc, peanut butter niknaks.
    Christening, bar mitzvah, wedding, funeral, Ramadan, the coming of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, AA meeting, the resurrection of Jesus, G8 summit, family reunion… these brownies would be welcome at any of the above. And I make it my business to invent occasions to enjoy these babies because Nikki is a hard nut to crack. When I say that, I mean the bitch is mean ! She can be a softie, but not when it comes to double choc, peanut butter niknaks.  
    She does not make these brownies willy-nilly.
    Watching me watch her niknaks like a fox watching a chicken out of the safety of its coop, she clears her throat. When I look up at her, she motions to the pan in my hand.
    Right! Cocoa à la Lexi! Coming right up.
    Maybe tonight won’t be as hard as I thought it would be. That is, until Nikki’s brow furrows and she steps closer to me with a scrutinizing eye. Reaching up, she touches my cheek, then my lip with a gentle touch and mutters, “Babe?”  
    Shit, fuck, crap!
    My face flames and she steps back to search my face. Turning her head to check on Dave, she pulls me into the corner of the kitchen and whisper-hisses, “Talk.”
    So starts Whisperfest 2014 .
    “It’s nothing. I swear. Don’t make a big deal. I don’t want Dave to freak out.”
    She whispers back heatedly, “If you don’t want me to say anything, I suggest you tell me what happened so there will be less freakage on my part, and I won’t need to alarm our sweet-yet-sad David.”
    Slapping her shoulder, I hiss out, “Shhhh! He’ll hear you!” Not having taken an inch of my dramatics, she glares at me while tapping her foot. And I cave. “Okay, so you have to promise not to freak out.”
    But as soon as I say that – of course – she freaks out. Wide-eyed, she steps back and whisper-shouts, “Who did this to you? Was it George? It was George, wasn’t it? I told you I didn’t want you living next to an unstable dude!”
    George, my bipolar neighbor, would never lay a hand on me. The guy loves me! Being a caseworker, the first time we spoke, I picked up on his behavior right away. I’m sure he wasn’t used to what he got from me.
    A hug.
    I told George that I worked with a lot of people who suffered mental illness, and that if he felt a panic attack coming on that I would be there for him; all he needed to do was call. Which he has done. And I’ve always been there to help talk him down and soothe him from the overwhelming state he finds himself in. He has never – I repeat – never been violent towards me. So I’m a little pissed at Nikki right now.
    I glower at her, “Don’t you do that, Nikki! That’s not cool, babe.”
    “Do what?” she responds, exasperated.
    Staring her down a moment, I state, “Stereotype.”
    Brows rising, she whispers, “Holy shit. I totally did, didn’t I?” Taking a step away from me, her brows bunch. She’s obviously upset with herself. And now I feel like shit.  
    Taking her hand, I sigh, “Babe, I’ll explain everything later, I promise. But right now, I’ve got cocoa to make, you’ve got niknaks to slice, and we’ve got to come up with a way for Dave to make this right with Phil.” Gesturing to my face, I tell her, “This…is not a priority right now.”
    Her eyes search my face, and I add, “Do I look like a withering mess right now?”
    Rolling her eyes, she responds sullenly, “Well, no.”
    Nodding, I agree, “Exactly, Nikki. Priorities.” She throws me a curt nod. I feel the need to add quietly, “Because what I’ve got to tell you…it’s not pretty.”
    Her face turns anxious, but she covers it quickly. Clapping her hands together, she opens the fridge, hands me the milk and orders, “Right! Cocoa à la Lexi . Now, lady!”
    This is one of the reasons I love Nikki. She knows me well enough to know I’ll talk to her when I’m ready. And we don’t keep secrets.
    So why am I thinking of a