pesto biryani

The Little Martian eyes the growing pile of dishes in my pretty tiled kitchen and gives me a judgy little glance.

"You just let them marinate in their own filth all night?" he singsongs.

"It was 2 a.m.!"

"Twelve plates," he snaps back.

"Full of pesto and dahi and crusty biryani!"

"And you left them?"

I shrug.

"Groooooosss."

"Oh, shut up. I've seen you do worse," I remind the Little Martian, gesturing to his silly, moth-eaten grey grandpa socks that he likes to stomp around the house in. I eye them with open disdain.

"Oi! Don't do that," he snaps. "Those are my comfort socks."

I snort.

"Comfort socks? What are you, a chick who watches K-dramas?"

"They keep me cosy!" he mumbles, padding over to my messy living room as he looks for a neat spot to curl up in.

Pink glasses litter my once-pristine dining table. Four empty beer bottles, a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and an ashless ashtray sit pretty on my ikea table.

A lot has changed, but smoking in the house? We haven't reached those levels of depravity just yet.

"Are you happy?" the Little Martian asks me.

The question pops out of absolutely nowhere. My hungover brain gallops to respond.

"Yes," I reply. I don't have to think much about it anymore.

"Really?"

"Yes."

Without a doubt, I think to myself. Yes, I am telling the truth.

"But... but Vladimir and Viola?"

"What about them?"

"It hasn't resolved... things will never be the same between Vladimir and you again, remember?"

"I tried my best, didn't I? Chased him down an intergalactic highway and demanded we sort things out..."

"And Sol? You still love him, don't you?"

I brace for the familiar ache in my stomach.

"Yes. A lot."

"Doesn't that make you sad?"

I eye the half-full Sauvignon Blanc and resist taking a swig.

"LM... isn't it a pretty problem to have? To love someone so much you don't know what to do with it?"

The Martian glances at the wine now, like he wouldn't mind a swig himself.

"I guess so."

I think of Sol. Sweet, saintly, sinister Sol, with his silly briefcase and bad haircut. His secret smile, and his melodic drawl. I shake the thoughts from my glossy little head and hop up from my beanbag despite the pounding in my temples and the somersaults last night's wine performs in my belly, then whirl the Little Martian out of his sad little spot.

"Stop waiting for shit to be perfect to be happy, LM."

The Martian sticks his tongue out at me, his familiar cheeky jibe back in the air.

"What are you, a Hallmark card?"

I snort.

"What's wrong with that shit anyway?" I wonder aloud, like one of those cheesy chicks in coming-of-age films who are finally... coming of age!

"Hallmark? Capitalism! It goes against—"

I interrupt the Little Martian's practised spiel.

"LM, is that something you really think... or is it just a contrarian belief you hold for the sake of being contrarian?"

The Martian stops dead in his tracks. His face goes blank, then animates just as quickly.

"Ha!"

I nod, smug as a bug.

"You know, you're not that stupid after all..." he mumbles, genuinely shocked.

I resist the urge to thwack him on the head with a cushion.

"It's much harder to be idiotically optimistic, you know? Anyone can be broody and pessimistic and full of angst. It's the sunny idiots who are the stronger ones... the foolish mavericks who are harder to find."

The Martian rests his little ivy cheek against his palm and looks off into the distance.

"Yeah! Kinda like when Elle moves to Seattle and everyone thinks she's a shallow blonde... but she's actually quite thoughtful and smart."

I wrinkle my nose. The Martian has been watching a lot of Amazon Prime while I work the week away.

"Well... yes, I suppose so."

"I guess I'm kinda like Elle Woods as well!" says the funky Little Martian in his silly comfort socks.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

He laughs, lighter than he's been for weeks.

It's good to have the silly Little Martian back.