“A moonlight stroll along the river?” Grandma asked.
“He took you to an independent film release?” Nana asked.
“He fed you? Please baby Jesus, tell me he fed you,” Mom teased.
My smile was so broad my cheeks hurt. “We started out throwing axes.”
“That’s a bold move,” Nana said.
“Then he took me to Costiera’s.”
“Did you get the pork belly porchetta? Please tell me you got the porchetta?” Mom pleaded.
“We both did. And it was A-maze-ing!” I announced. “After that we went to Vacaros for cannoli.”
“So romantic,” Mom said.
“And then to Mobtown for dancing.”
“Oh, I love Mobtown!” Nana exclaimed. “Your Pops is quite the dancer. He can foxtrot like a pro.”
I laughed. “Well, neither of us can foxtrot, or tango, or even waltz. We spent most of the night doing that high-school version of a slow dance where you plaster yourselves against each other and kind of sway.”
“Totally legit,” my grandmother said with her Polish accent.
The other family members arrived, and we all ate, played basketball, enjoyed the Nana and Pop’s slideshow of their Danube River cruise, and cheered the Ravens on to victory against the Cincinnati Bengals.
That evening as we crowded into the kitchen to clean up from dinner, I asked Mom for a couple of to-go containers.
“Yes, hon. Please help yourself.” She gave me a concerned once-over. “I’ve got a container of white chicken chili in the freezer if you want to take that home as well.”
“It’s not for me.” Although I often took home containers of leftovers for myself. “This is for…the guy I went out with last night.”
Mom gave me a knowing look. “One date and you’re taking him food? Little fast, don’t you think?”
I still didn’t want to confess to a week of sex before the one date, or that I had fallen hard for yet another Mr. Wrong. “He eats out a lot. I thought he’d enjoy some home-cooked food.”
“Humph.”
With that sound of judgement Mom pulled the plastic containers from the cabinet and handed them to me. “Go ahead. But if he breaks your heart I’m going to drive over to his house and beat the barbecued chicken out of him.”
An hour later I was knocking on the entrance of Eng’s apartment. He swung the door open, visibly delighted to see me. I held out the containers of food and he stood aside and gestured for me to enter.
“It was family dinner night, so I brought you some leftover chicken, macaroni and cheese, salad, and corn bread. I hope you like—holy mother of God, is that an Amy Sherald painting?”
Eng’s “hovel” looked completely different than the last time I’d been here. Gone was the Rent-A-Center sofa and dining set. In its place was the most gorgeous furniture I’d ever seen. There was a sculpture on a side table that looked like it had come from a museum, and on the wall were several beautiful paintings, including the one I was staring at as if I’d seen Jesus come back in the flesh.
“I wanted to make my hovel a sanctuary,” he said, his voice holding a slight tinge of embarrassment.
“She painted Michelle Obama’s official White House portrait. Amy Sherald is a fucking legend. How did you get this painting?”
The orc squirmed. “I went on a website for a local art gallery and picked paintings I liked. Then I purchased them and paid extra to have them delivered and hung on my walls right away. Do you like it?”
“Like it?Likeit?” The painting was amazing, a portrait of a young Black American woman with bold primary colors. The subject looked from the canvas with a confident stare, her hands on her hips, her curls wild, a slight sideways smile that gave her a rakish and seductive edge. I loved it. And I couldn’t believe that Eng would have impulsively purchased an insanely expensive work of art that was so in alignment with my own tastes.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.
“I’m glad, because I think it is beautiful too. This female in the picture looks nothing like you, but she still reminds me of you in every way.”
