Chicken Noodle Soup for the Soul /./ [Simally]
@enthusiasticclouds-sally
It had been four days since Simba’s appendicitis surgery, which made it the twentieth of December. So close to Christmas, and with every day it drew nearer, Simba felt more and more anxious. He was near jumping out of his skin. He was driving everyone else in the house crazy, but he just couldn’t help it. He hated the fact that he still, despite reassurance, felt like he had already ruined Christmas. He hated the fact that he was stuck on the couch all day, couldn’t even take Bowie for a walk. He hated that he felt useless.
Not to mention he was D Y I N G of boredom. Which was why he had been fiddling with his phone all day--texting just about everyone on the face of the Earth. Jane and Sil and even Tink (had forgotten, for just a second, that she was in rehab because he just wanted to talk to somone) but everyone had their lives. Jane had work and Sil was in class and Nala was working (though she always texted him back, bless her.)
When he’d texted Sally “What’s up?”, she’d responded almost immediately with “Nothing really.” And Simba had asked (told) her to come over--and to bring Salene with her, because poor Bowie wasn’t going on runs anymore. He was just getting walked.
She’d agreed and Simba had spent the next, like, two hours driving his mum absolutely insane waiting for Sally to arrive. Ber and Kiara had gone off to do last minute Christmas shopping with separate lists from Simba and instructions not to kill each other while they were out.
After what felt like absolutely for-EVER, there was a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it!” Simba called.
“Don’t you dare!” came his mother’s answering shout from the kitchen as she came around the corner with an apron about her waist and a scowl on her face.
Simba snickered at her and snuggled farther down into the couch cushions.
Sarabi casually smacked the side of his head on the way to the door, Bowie already there, snuffling at the seam and dancing on his toes, tail wiggling furiously. “Git, wewe kijinga mbwa.”
“Aw, Mama, he’s not kijinga. That’s mean.”
“He just wants to see his giiiiirlfriend. Right, Bowie?”
Sarabi rolled her eyes and opened the door, smiling wildly. “Jambo! You must be Sally and Salene. Jambo, Salene,” Sarabi added, but the puppy wasn’t paying any attention since Bowie had shot out the door and was already biting at Salene’s ear, trying to coax her into playing.
“Come in, come in,” Sarabi said, opening the door wide and smiling even wider.
Simba gave a sharp whistle from the couch which had Bowie raising his head and darting back inside the house, so that Sally and Salene could enter coordinately. As soon as they were all inside, Sarabi closed the door.
“I’m Sarabi, Simba’s mother, if you did not figure that out for yourself,” Sarabi introduced herself, in her thick Kenyan accent. “Thank you for coming over to entertain my incorrigible son, he’s been driving me mambo.”
“She can understand you, you know,” Simba snorted from the couch.
“I’ve been teaching her Swahili.”
“Ah, so she can speak it, but not that kipenzi wa kiume of yours.”
“I think he understands more than you think, Mama. He just doesn’t like to speak it.”
“Pah,” Sarabi harrumphed and turned back to Sally. “See? Mambo.”