I've arranged for groceries to be delivered—fresh ingredients for a simple but elegant meal, along with a bottle of wine that I was assured would pair perfectly with the menu I've planned.
In the kitchen, I remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves with precise movements, establishing the clear boundary between my professional and domestic spheres.
I unpack the groceries, arranging ingredients in the order they'll be used.
Cooking has always appealed to my need for order. It's a transformation of separate ingredients into something new.
There's a clarity to it that I find satisfying, a tangible result that can be measured and evaluated.
Rosanna emerges from her studio as I'm preparing the vegetables, her hair now pulled back in a fresh knot, the ink smudge gone from her cheek.
"Something smells amazing already," she says, leaning against the counter to observe my work.
I glance up from the cutting board to find her watching me with genuine curiosity.
"Just the basics so far," I reply, the knife continuing its steady rhythm through the herbs. "The real cooking hasn't begun yet."
She smiles at this, a warm expression that creates an unexpected flutter of something in my chest.
"Can I help?" she offers, already rolling up her sleeves. "I promise not to ruin anything too expensive."
I hesitate only briefly before assigning her the simple task of washing and tearing lettuce for the salad.
We work side by side in the kitchen that has, until recently, been exclusively my domain, establishing a rhythm that feels surprisingly natural. She asks questions about the techniques I use, listens attentively to my explanations, and offers observations.
When her phone buzzes with a text notification, she glances at it and smiles.
"Tessa says we are trending upward after the museum."
Even here in my kitchen, we are data.
***
The food turned out well. It is simple but elegant, the flavors balanced and complementary.
Rosanna exclaims over each component with an enthusiasm that seems genuine rather than polite, her appreciation unguarded and expressive.
I find myself watching her more than eating, fascinated by the animation in her face as she describes the flavor combinations.
"This is seriously impressive," she says, gesturing with her fork. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
The question leads to a conversation about my college years, when I worked in a restaurant kitchen to understand business operations from the ground up.
She listens with evident interest, asking questions that draw out details I haven't thought about in years. I find myself talking about the chef who taught me about balance in flavors, the satisfaction of creating something tangible after long days of abstract academic work.
In return, she tells me about her early struggles as an illustrator, the years of rejection before her first book contract, the side jobs that kept her afloat while she built her portfolio.
As we clear the table together, our conversation shifts to plans for the weekend. The movement around the kitchen feels natural, as if we've been sharing this space for years rather than weeks.
"There's a street art festival in the Riverside district," Rosanna mentions as she rinses plates. "Local artists painting murals on some of the buildings scheduled for demolition. A last creative statement before they come down."
She says this without accusation, simply stating a fact, but I feel the implicit connection to my company's development plans.
Instead of changing the subject as I might have weeks ago, I find myself asking, "Would you like to go? Together?"
The question hangs between us, more significant than it appears on the surface.
This isn't an ERS-scheduled appearance, not a performance for public consumption, but a genuine invitation. Rosanna turns from the sink, her expression surprised but pleased.
