He didn’t answer, but to my surprise, he took a slice, and then he pushed the plate back to me, joining in with the bread’s encouragement for me to eat the last piece.
“I'm gonna be fat.”
“You're gonna be perfect. . . like before.” He broke off the smallest piece of bread, dipping it into his dinner, for both moisture and taste, before propping it onto his tongue.
He looked genuinely terrified with it sat in his mouth, and it took him a moment to attempt to chew. He swallowed after his teeth crunched it down to nothing, taking a sip of water at the same time.
A jug from the table was slowly going down as he refilled his glass and mine.
“Thank you.” I smiled, speaking so quietly, I didn’t think he'd hear me.
But he did. “You're welcome.”
He broke off another piece of bread, this one slightly bigger, and he warned me, “This could get ugly.”
I laughed, snorting in disbelief. “I doubt it. Nothing about you will ever be ugly.”
He smiled at me from across the table, the beauty of his face proving my statement true.
“I love you. More than anything. More than anyone. More than ever.”
“I love you, too.”
I smiled back, but he didn't see it. He was already up from his chair, on his way to dispose of the remaining ajiaco and the bread he'd broken apart but never ate.
“You're done? You didn’t finish. I mean, you ate more than usual, but I thought you’d be hungrier.”
“You're forgetting, I ate earlier.” He noticed I didn't see the amusement in his joke, so he changed the tone of the conversation. “I'm full. But it was beautiful. Thank you.”
And then he disappeared from the room. I listened to his feet taking him further away. I counted the steps to the second floor as he climbed them, and when he reached the top, I went back to feeling nothing but confusion.
He liked the food, but he didn't finish it.
He never finished a meal, not since he’d found me again.
And I never knew why.
I had cleared away the dishes I'd used for cooking, following what I'd watched Woodrow do. The dishwasher had stopped for the night, and so had I. I’d finished cleaning away any light spills quickly because a kitchen this pretty had no reason to be unclean. Its shiny white would show up every damn smudge.
Cleaning helped my thoughts and all their sinister undertones, giving me something to focus on—the goal of a groomed house.
But I was finished now, and with nothing to do, the cloud of confusion Woodrow left behind was back.
I traipsed the stairs, careful not to hit my toes on the silver bars, locking down the pastel pink carpet. The whole house was white with soft-colored decorations, almost too pretty for a man to live here, at all. It screamed feminism. It screamed light and beautiful, and promised to be a place where I could make memories that would be described in the same way.
I found myself upstairs, but unlike its predecessor, this house had no narrow hallway. The landing was an open square, much like the entry downstairs.
Four doors surrounded me, each one closed. Something called me to one, and whatever it was, wasn't Woodrow, because he wasn't in there.
I stepped inside, the thick carpet snuggling into my toes as I wandered deeper into the room.
This place was a haven, with the walls lined with tiny bottles of nail gel. In the corner of the room was a large table where I could work to create mini masterpieces. A giant gerbera filled a tiny vase on the top. The other side of the room had a range of hair care products, all suitable for my hair type.
I picked up a bottle of gel and decided, without looking at the others, this would be the color of my nails tomorrow.
I placed it back in its perfect spot, careful not to nudge any others from theirs, and I stepped back out of the room, still in awe.
I closed the door, not wanting a ginger minionto destroy anything.
