“I like that about you. That say what you think thing. It’s different.”
His are the last words spoken for a while as we sit in companionable silence watching multiple episodes of Chopped. I’m not exactly a skilled chef, but I try, and that’s what’s important. I love this show, but Eli is enthralled.He may have forgotten that I’m here.I haven’t caught him looking at me in close to two hours. He has leaned in closer to the TV at least nine times to get a better look at an ingredient or a technique.
“I’m hungry.”
Eli stands quickly at my words. “I can make you something.” He looks concerned as though I said I’m near starvation rather than‘I’m hungry’.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be eating Chinese takeout for the foreseeable future.”
“Ah, yeah.” He does the neck rubbing thing again. “Sorry about that. You don’t have to eat it. I can throw it out.”
My gasp is dramatic as I clutch my chest in feigned heartache. “You DO NOT waste Wu Chow.”
“Right.” His eyes narrow in concentration. “So, we eat it then?”
“We eat it.”
“Got it. I’ll heat it up.” He goes to the kitchen and starts pulling takeout boxes from the fridge. Then, he gets a couple of skillets and places them on the stove. He’s moving around the kitchen like it’s his own. He seems to be completely comfortable. In fact, he always seems to be at ease. The only times I’ve seen him question himself was the morning after the chaos and immediately after he snuck into my apartment. Even then, those moments of uncertainty didn’t last.
“You know you could just put the boxes in the microwave. It would be more efficient.”
His palms hit the counter on each side of the stove, and his forehead meets the oven vent. He’s collecting himself. This is not an absurd notion, but he’s acting like it’s purely ridiculous.
“The point is not efficiency. The point is flavor. By reheating it on the stove, we preserve the flavor.” He doesn’t look at me when he explains why I’m wrong.
I’m in no mood to argue since my only job is to sit and wait for the flavorful food to be brought to me, so I remain silent.
Eli makes our plates and places mine in front of me, taking the seat beside me for himself.
“Thank you. It smells great.”
“It’ll taste great, too. Now, start with chapter two.”
My book. He wants to pick up where we left off with the book.
“I’m eating.” I say this, implying that it’s an inconvenience when all I’m really thinking is how excited I am that he’s interested enough to hear more.
Eli gives me a rare, bland look, conveying that I’m being ridiculous and not fooling anyone.
“We both know you’re going to talk non-stop while chewing beyond your mouths capacity of Chinese take-out so you might as well entertain me with a compelling story.”
I desperately want to be offended, butdid he just refer to my book as compelling?Best I can do is not squeal and hug his neck.
After we eat surprisingly fresh-tasting takeout, and I tell Eli the next chapter of my book, we clean up the mess and play a few hands of Uno. It’s almost sad how badly I massacre him AGAIN.
Eli rarely has his phone out, so I’m curious what he’s doing when he’s staring at it intently and typing away.
“What are you doing?”
“Googling how many draw four cards are supposed to be in a deck and the likelihood of one player getting all of them.”
Eli tells me he’s going to head out. I’m not ready for him to go yet, but I’m also not willing to say that out loud.
“What time do you get off?”
“We close at midnight on weekdays. It usually takes a half hour or so to clean up, so I get out around 12:30 most nights.”
He closes the distance between us, entwining his fingers through my hair once again, tilting my head back, and kissing my forehead. The contact of his lips on my skin sends small electric shocks throughout my body. I’m in real trouble if this man ever advances past my forehead. When he got on his knees, I lost the ability to form coherent thought. He kisses me on the forehead, and it shocks my entire system. Heaven only knows what will happen when he puts his lips on mine. That’s, of course, assuming that he ever will.
