I put the items on the counter, bend to get a pan, and straighten back up to find Isla has taken a seat at the bar, an amused look on her face. “Seriously?” she asks.
“Dead serious.” I make a show of spinning the pan by the handle. “What kind of eggs do you like?”
“Scrambled.”
“Me too.” I wink at her.
She laughs. “Ah, what a weekend this is turning out to be.”
“Yeah. Wanna drink?” I ask her. “Got a minibar under the TV. Grabrakija. It’ll open up your appetite.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Vodka?”
She shakes her head.
“Whiskey?”
“It’s early.”
“It’s the weekend.”
Isla laughs, and I watch her ass sway to the TV. She crouches. Nice. I smack the pan. Once, twice. Gonna smack that ass. Stove fired up, I oil the pan, then scramble all the eggs in a bowl, fast and furious to make bubbles.
“I add milk to it,” she says.
“No milk.”
“It’s fluffier with milk.”
“What is it with women and bugging me while I’m in the kitchen? You see a man in here and immediately get your boss on.”
She lifts her arms, palms up. “I was just suggesting. Here.” She puts the tiny vodka bottle on the bar. I take the eggs off the burner and grab two plastic plates, ’cause nobody is doing dishes up in this bitch, then add cheese, wishing I hadkobasa, but cheese will have to do. “Toast?”
“Yes, please, and butter.”
“Make a screwdriver.” I search the pantry for bread, but I can’t find it.
“On top of the fridge.” She points.
I grab the bag, shaking my head. She’d need a step stool to get the bread. What a terrible host Homer made me out to be. I’m gonna remedy that.
I place the plates on the bar and lock eyes with her pretty green ones that can’t see well enough to drive. “Where’s my screwdriver?” I ask.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Vodka and OJ. That’s it.”
“Everything has a fancy name. Glass?”
I pass her two plastic cups.
She mixes the liquids in one and pours only orange juice for herself. “Everything fancy has a name. What’s yours?” she asks and sips.
“You think I’m fancy?” I round the bar and breach the space some women define as arm’s length. Her perfume reaches my nose. A mixture of cinnamon and maybe orange. A heavy wintery combination, and it suits her. It’s warm like her.
“Fancy in the way you made me breakfast. I’ve never had a guy make me breakfast.”
