I draw in an unsteady breath.
Is there a chance for us to make it? Be with each other? Learn each other so we could…what?
Even thinking of having a long-term relationship with a man like Gustave seems improbable.
I sit up and look around his space. I wonder if I could live with him here. That we could have a lifeso mundane that I’d kiss him hurriedly, offer a whispered good morning, and rush to work.
I shake my head before the image can fully form.
No. None of that will be possible. He comes from a world that I can’t fit in. Don’t want to, either. He belongs to itanddisdains it. I’ll hate it even more.
I am old enough, mature enough to know, to recognize that even if we do try, we’ll fail. No relationship can withstand the pressures of gossip, of coming from such different worlds. And let’s not forget, I’m Mexican, and how does a brown-skinned woman fit in withle ComteGustave de Valois?
She does not!
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake him.
His crisp white dress shirt from last night hangs over the back of a chair. I pull it on, along with my panties that are lying on the floor next to my wrinkled dress. The shirt is too big, with sleeves that swallow my hands, but it smells like his cologne—which I discovered is Creed Aventus andhim.
It comforts me.
I walk barefoot down the hall and into his immaculate kitchen. It welcomes me with its sleek counters. It feels more like a showroom than a place where someone actually eats.
I roll uphissleeves and start making a mess.
The stocked fridge and pantry are a chef’s wet dream, so it’s not hard to find what I need to make breakfast: tomatoes, onions, eggs, and a fresh red bellpepper from the market. I also discover chili flakes next to dried oregano and basil, which I decide would have to do. In the fridge, there’s a bundle of parsley wrapped in a damp towel. Not cilantro, but it’ll do the job.
I knead the dough for the tortillas, enjoying the feel of the warm flour soft beneath my palms. I leave it to rest under a clean dish towel.
The hiss of the gas flame fills the kitchen as bell peppers blacken and blister, their skins curling and splitting. A smoky, earthy perfume drifts up—warm and familiar, carrying me home.
I dice onions, sauté them until they turn translucent, add garlic, and toss in the chopped tomatoes and roasted chilies. The salsa bubbles gently, spitting against the copper pan.
I find a rolling pin, likely used for pies, and use it on the flat surface of the kitchen counter to roll out tortillas.
By the time I press the first tortilla and flip it on a pan, the kitchen no longer feels like a sterile museum. It smells of spice and warmth, of morning and a memory in the making.
I stack the tortilla neatly on a plate, wrapping it in a kitchen towel to keep warm.
I humLa Bohèmeunder my breath as I work. I’m tasting the salsa to make sure it’s done when I hear him.
“Now, this is a beautiful sight.” His voice is rough with sleep.
He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my shoulder. “What are you making?”
“Huevos rancheros.”
“Sounds delicious.” He nuzzles my neck. Goosebumps run over my arms. I turn off the stove and turn in his arms.
“You look good in my clothes.” He kisses my mouth softly first and then deepens the kiss.
There’s a trace of mint on his lips, fresh and clean—everything I need to start my day.
He raises his head and smiles at me. Slow, warm, almost boyish.
“You’re dangerous,” he replies.
“Because I can make breakfast?”
