I can see this is, honestly, a very real concern for Sora. I consider giving her a name, then realize it won’t mean anything to her. Plus, most of the chefs I had seen were tattooed, so that description wouldn’t help either.
“Believe me…you’ll know. He’ll probably say something about melons.”
“O…kay? Gross?” She makes a face, her brows knit together in concern.
I choke out a laugh. “No, notthosemelons. Like, the actual melons that you eat. Watermelons, honeydew melons…you know. Melons.”
Sora peers up at me. “Are you having a stroke?”
“Look, don’t be all weird about it, okay? I don’t really date much, so this is already incredibly uncomfortable for me.”
“You don’t?” Her eyes widen at my confession, and she breaks off a piece of her muffin top, then pops it in her mouth.
“No, I…” I think back to the last time I went on a date. It was a few months after Dad died, and I ended up ugly crying into my soup when a man, who looked so much like him out of the corner of my eye, walked into the restaurant we were eating at. Obviously, the date didn’t end with any future plans being made, and later, when I checked the app we’d met on, the guy had blocked me. “It’s…complicated.”
“For the same reason throwing a penny into the Trevi Fountain and making a wish is complicated?”
I pause. I didn’t realize how perceptive Sora was. She truly has the makings of a great producer yet.
“Touché.” I sigh and cross the room to the desk, starting to put my kit together so we can head to the kitchens. “My dad died last year. It’s been hard to talk about it…and it doesn’t exactly make for upbeat conversation on a date.”
“Oh, Chloe…I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” Sora offers.
“No, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry. I guess I just try to keep it to myself, because people don’t really get it unless they’re also a member of the Dead Parents Club, you know?”
“I get it,” she says softly. “I mean, I don’tget it, get it. But I do understand why you’d prefer to keep that sort of thing to yourself.”
“Thanks, Sora. Anyway, we should probably head downstairs.”
She stands, then pauses for a moment, pursing her lips. Suddenly, she holds a finger up at me—as if to say,one moment, please—as she scrounges around in her bag for something.
A second later, she pulls out a tube of liquid lipstick.
“You need to add at least a little bit of color to your lips,” she says. “This is my favorite shade—dusty rose. Iswearit looks good on everyone, but it will be absolutely perfect with your skin tone.”
She hands me the tube, and I fiddle with it for a second, deciding whether to put it on. I glance at Sora, and she looks hopeful. So, even though I’m not really a lipstick-wearing kind of gal, I stride back over to the mirror and take my time applying it, then step back to scrutinize my face.
She’s right. The shade is perfect.
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely appreciative of this young woman who has somehow strong-armed her way into my life. I realize that not only has it been a long time since I’ve made a friend at work, but it’s been ages since I’ve madeanykind of friend. Someone who lends you their lipstick and picks up on little things. Sora beams at me.
“I promise I won’t embarrass you in front of…um…what should I call him?” she asks.
“Melon Man will do,” I say with a smirk.
“Just like that, Karl. Keep doing what you’re doing,” I say to the older chef, who’s slicing carrots at a speed I didn’t even know was possible.
My camera is mounted on a bulky Sachtler tripod, lowered to about waist height, the lens aimed at his weathered hands in a tight shot that emphasizes the fast movement of his fingers. I pan to the right slightly, zooming out and re-focusing to show the full bin of chopped vegetables. I record this same shot a few times, then reverse the pan, pushing in on his hands before I finally turn off the camera, pull my face away from the viewfinder, and offer him a polite smile.
“Thanks so much, that was great!”
He offers me his own polite smile, then rests his knife on the cutting board and wipes his hands on his apron.
“So, when I see my hands on TV, I can tell everyone that I’m a hand model, right?”
I chuckle and give him a nod. “For sure, you can definitely do that. I just can’t promise this shot will make it into the show—or, if it does, which episode, exactly.”
“I’ll just have to watch the whole season, I guess,” Karl says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his smile widens. He looks to be in his early sixties, but it’s hard to say. There’s a youthful energy to him that makes the grays in his hair feel stylish instead of drab, and his corded forearms tell me that Karl was probably a total babe in his youth. “Marla will justloveit when she hears about this. I have to text her.”
