Special thanks to kenjisato for beta reading this piece. Due to its interminable length, I had to edit it myself. Thus, all errors are doubly my own fault, and likewise no one else's.
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My girlfriend's the younger of a set of Irish twins; never mind that her family's a mix of seven different ancestries. I'm sure Irish is in there somewhere, though it's not plainly evident. Her skin is that strange European blend that tricks you into thinking it's a light brown whenever you try to conjure up a memory. Only when you see her in person again do you realize she's neither brown nor tanned. She's just not pale as a ghost.
Her defining characteristic, in my mind, is that she always looks like she's up to something. If she were a man, I think it'd be incredibly unattractive; it'd make her seem ratlike. I'd be checking the silverware drawer constantly and waiting for the police to knock on my door -- or maybe an angry parent with a pregnant daughter in tow. Since she's not, I think it's adorable. Her mousy brown hair, when it's not pinned back or to the sides, offers her a curtain of bangs to plot behind. She tends to slouch a bit whenever she's deep in thought, and, on top of that, she's a pacer. When she gets mad, her face reminds me of a super-cute cartoon bunny rabbit trying its best to show you how much it hates you. It's hard to take it seriously. I just want to hug her and pet her until she melts into me and that scrunched-up little puss softens. I also want to slide my hand down her pants and stroke her pussy and clit until her hate-face turns into an O-face. I imagine the leg thumping and everything.
If I were a less sensitive and diplomatic boyfriend, I think my knees and ankles would've been gnawed off by now. The whole "solve all problems with sex" thing remains an idle and unshared fantasy.
I suppose I should offer some additional context: I'm over six feet tall, and I take care of myself. I'm not heavy, but I've got some muscle on me. Sam is five-foot-three and forever looks like she could use another sandwich. She's my sneaky little pixie, and I love her dearly. Even though it's incredibly tempting to make her mad just to see that cute face, I usually restrain myself.
So, that's one Irish twin out of two, raising the question that becomes our segue.
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On an otherwise-unremarkable Friday night last April, we had Sam's sister, Max -- sorry,
Maxine
- over for dinner. It was a sure sign she'd broken up with her latest boyfriend. She would disappear from our lives for a month or two whenever she got into a relationship, and even her social media presence would become a one-way street. You could check out a billion pictures of her and her new man, and get a manic contact high from the attached blurbs -- diabetes too, usually. An actual response to a message, though? Good luck. If you didn't want her to be pissed at you when the inevitable happened, though, you'd better have tossed her some likes or shares or whatever the hell else they're called.
Maxine wasn't pissed at us that night, because Sam was a very good sister -- unreasonably good, sometimes, was my opinion. Instead, Maxine was her usual post-breakup self: breathy sighs, cringeworthy platitudes, and a bottomless need for this-thing-I-know-not-what called "support." I swore she played a game with herself: how much she could talk about her ex and their relationship without
technically
talking about either of them. I just wished it didn't require props -- you know, us. Calling us her audience would have been too generous.
She breezed through the door at around six thirty and bombarded Sam with those ridiculous faux-European kisses. She's a few inches taller than her younger sister, and she would always bend down to make the scene even sillier -- a little at the knees, but a little too much from the waist at the same time. When it was my turn, she'd rise up on her tiptoes and turn her cheek expectantly. We'd both hover-hand, and I'd give her a light peck. In return, she'd give me exactly one line. That night was no different.
"You're still taking good care of my Samantha, right, William?" she asked sternly.
"As long as she'll let me," I replied.
Then came the weird, knowing look -- another tradition. It seemed to say,
I know you are, but I'm still watching you like a hawk, mister!
It made me a little uncomfortable, like it always did, and also offended me just a smidge. I found it laughable that she thought she could drop back into our lives every few months and act like she was her sister's keeper. Mind you, I counted my blessings that she wasn't up in our business very often.
Maxine also didn't do irony, sarcasm, or self-deprecation. In my mind, there was no way she was cracking a silent joke about her own self-absorption with those stares of hers.
If you could forget absolutely everything about their personalities, it was eminently plausible that Sam and Maxine were siblings. Granted, Maxine did a lot of work on herself that distinguished her from her easygoing sister. Her tan looked natural; her hair, not so much. The platinum-blonde shade didn't really complement her skin tone, but that was just one man's opinion. To her credit, she didn't dress up like a Barbie girl or a socialite. Since you've already figured out I wasn't her biggest fan, I'll give you the summary I mostly kept to myself: Maxine was Basic Bitch Premium. Ever since I'd first met her, my take had been that she'd be much prettier if she stopped trying so hard and went with a "Max" vibe instead. It worked wonders for Sam. There's this combination of tomboy and fem that, to me, is the best of both worlds, and Sam nailed it. I thought Maxine-cum-Max would, too, if she'd just give it a chance. She had the baseline features for it: ultra-feminine, such that all the usual tomboy stuff wouldn't tip her over into actually looking butch.
Sam showed me pictures sometimes of her older sister's various international exploits. When Maxine traveled to some out-of-the-way place and not everything went perfectly, I caught a glimpse of the Max I'd sloppily constructed inside my mind. It was to Maxine's credit, I supposed, that she was willing to put those pictures up at all. I didn't think Maxine actually tapped into "Max" during her trips, though. I didn't think traveling was the cure for what ailed her. The "Max" inside my head knew how to just... stop. She knew how to relax, breathe, unclench, and be okay with herself in a quiet moment of solitude -- one that didn't need to be turned into a social media post, either. I suppose it would've been really shitty of me if "Max" weren't happier than Maxine, but I'll admit it
was
a little shitty of me that "Max" was so much more like Sam.
I also know it sounds like I'd given the subject an unhealthy amount of thought. What can I say? As best I could tell, Maxine was going to be my sister-in-law in another few years. On top of that, Sam seemed very invested in her -- highly disproportionately to how often Maxine actually showed up to spend time with her in person. I'm kind of a relic. A so-called relationship between sisters comprised mostly of social media replies -- more those than even texts! - didn't seem all that healthy to me. It seemed very one-sided, and there was digital evidence to bear that out.
After the awkward greetings were taken care of, the three of us made our way to the living room. Maxine eyed the cheese and crackers like they were a temptation laid out by Satan himself. Sam had one cracker with a slice of sharp cheddar. I had more than that; I wasn't going to let the pepper jack or the smoked-bacon gouda just sit there. I did eventually catch a glance from Sam that I should cool it, so I did.
Wine was offered; Maxine politely declined, and we were ready with her water with lemon. She was very gracious; she wasn't a cartoon villain or anything. She was a minor antagonist at best, and one that the writers occasionally let you know you should be laughing at.
After about four painful attempts at small talk, Sam and I basically gave up. It was all awkward silences and dumb questions about dinner until dinner was actually served. Maxine performed a one-woman play for us, entitled
