Office Kitchen

I find Quetzal squatting in front of the open fridge and blankly staring inside. “Is Mithra pregnant?”
“Not as far as I know,” I say.
“Are you?”
“Nope.”
Distressed, he turns his head to me. “Is either of you on some kind of a weird diet?”
“Nope.” I lean down and look inside over his shoulder.
There are yesterday’s lasagna leftovers, some olives, more olives, a jar of pickles, three eggs, two beer cans, bottles of ketchup, milk, vermouth and vodka (because Mithra and I can’t ever agree on one type of alcohol).
I shrug. “Guess it’s another take-out day.”