Simmer Down

future self-exploration.”
    Thirty minutes later, which is to say, after thirty minutes of listening to Naomi express her passionate intolerance for social injustice, I hung up the phone feeling like a heartless moron. While I was infuriated by things like the reappearance of Josh’s ex-girlfriend and the ubiquity of sidewalks that hadn’t been shoveled, Naomi was driven to action by the unfairness of the world.
    Driven to action. More than ever, I was shaken by the fear that it was Naomi who had murdered Oliver. If I believed that Naomi was guilty, didn’t I have an obligation to turn her over to the police? I still had Detective Hurley’s business card. But if I called him, what could I report? I had no proof that Naomi had done anything wrong. Furthermore, I highly doubted that Naomi was in the midst of some crazed killing spree, so it wasn’t as if my silence were putting other lives in danger. At least I hoped not. For all I knew, though, she was so incensed at my frivolously subpar performance as an intern that she was loading a gun right now. And if I told Detective Hurley about my suspicions of Naomi, I’d have to share my suspicions about Hannah, Dora, and Sarka, too, wouldn’t I? And I had no evidence to implicate any of them, either. For the first time, however, as I mulled over the possibility of talking to Detective Hurley, it occurred to me that my suspicions fell mainly on women and that the murder weapon had been a Robocoupe. According to pop culture, poison was one kind of woman’s weapon. What about a food processor, even a gigantic one? Was it a woman’s weapon, too?

FIFTEEN

    HAVING resolved not to call the police, I went on to formulate my New Year’s resolution, which was to become a social superhero: an individual selflessly dedicated to fighting atrocities on the planet Earth. Today, however, was December 31, so I could enjoy doing my hair and makeup and dressing up for dinner without feeling ashamed that I was already breaking the resolution, not to mention neglecting the world. I filled a bowl with the steaming kielbasa and sat down in front of the television. After all, Naomi’s high level of social awareness might have driven her to commit murder. To save myself from homicidal fanaticism, I had to counteract Naomi’s influence with some truly socially unaware Laguna Beach reruns.
    Doug showed up at five wearing a red T-shirt announcing: Gays Do It Better. Between that and the black leather pants and jacket, he wasn’t planning a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of night. He’d let the hair on his formerly shaved head grow back an inch, and I wondered whether his New Year’s resolution was to stop looking like Mr. Clean. Doug’s appearance made me hesitate to ask his advice about what I should wear tonight, but I took a chance and stood him in front of my closet.
    “No black,” I instructed. “I’m sick of always wearing black to dress up.”
    Posed there, Doug was staring at hangers full of black clothing. “Sexy but not rude, since Josh will be busy all night, and we don’t want him distracted by a plunging neckline, do we?”
    I disagreed. “Plunging and distraction are fine. Go nuts. And don’t M.ommie Dearest me about all the wire hangers.” I flopped onto my bed and flipped through Us Weekly while Doug plowed through my wardrobe options.
    “What about this top?” Doug suggested, waving around a sleeveless red top that tied at the back of the neck.
    “Have you lost all of your gay aesthetic?” I shrieked. “Doug, redheads have no business wearing red. Heather gave that to me after she had Walker and her breasts tripled in size and she got rid of all her clothes. Are you feeling ill?”
    “No, I’m not feeling ill. Redheads can totally pull off red if it’s the right shade, like this is. It’s not like it’s stop sign red or anything. This is a gorgeous deep red, and the material is just right for a holiday—sort of linen with a shimmer thing. Try it on. But you’ll have to wear black pants. Oh, leather ones! We’ll match!” Doug grinned and tossed me my pair of leather pants that I’d worn only once before, to my five-year high school reunion, where I’d hoped to run into Andy Peyton, who’d stood me up for a spring dance and left me single while all my friends were making out with their dates to Savage Garden and Chris Isaak. And he didn’t even bother to show up at the reunion. I was still pissed about that.
    I made Doug turn around while I