Hugh begins to set the small kitchen table with cloth napkins and water glasses. He opens the door and steps out to the landing, cuts three bright zinnias from a window box attached to the metal stair rail. He puts them in a bud vase and sets it at the center of the table, then returns to a stove to warm parathas on a griddle. I let myself observe the back of his neck, the place where his neatly trimmed, dark hairline meets freshly shaved skin. I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my fingers across that skin, and whether he might want me to do that. I wonder if it would be smooth, or if I’d feel dark stubble under my fingertips.
“Dinner is served,” he announces.
I climb out of the armchair, running my hand along the smooth leather as I walk away. By the time I reach the table, he has already set a low bowl, heaped with steaming rice, a dish that looks a bit like scrambled eggs, and a couple of other deliciously scented sides. He brushes a steaming paratha with ghee and then sets it on my plate.
“You’re not one of those people who thinks cilantro tastes like soap, are you?” he asks. I shake my head, and he releases a handful of fresh herbs over my bowl. “My mum still calls it coriander,” he muses, “even when it’s fresh.” He refills my wine and comes to sit across from me.
“Paneer bhurji and dal makhani,” he tells me, “with akachumber salad. The simple comfort food I carry with me wherever I go in this world. I hope you enjoy.”
Following his lead, I tear an edge off the soft buttery paratha and dip it into the dal. I honestly can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me, much less in their home kitchen. I feel overcome with gratitude for the delicate balance of this meal, and the simple pleasure of being in this place with Hugh.
“It’s a miracle that you made all of this fabulous food in an Instant Pot, in less time than it would take for us to get a table at Deer and Dove,” I exclaim.
“I actually made the paneer yesterday,” he responds. “It’s absurd, really, to make paneer when it’s easily found at the corner shop. But somehow it relaxes me at the end of a long work week, to press the curd through cheesecloth. It’s a bit like meditation.”
“But yummier,” I reply.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.” His face shows genuine delight. “And the dal? Not too spicy?”
“Bring on the spice,” I tell him. “I love it.”
“Then next time, I absolutely will add more heat,” he replies, smiling.
I feel a blush rise to my cheeks, imagining the next time he cooks for me, and all the ways we might find to add heat. He glances away, toward my almost empty water glass, his expression making clear that he’s also considering the double meaning of his words. Then he jumps up to refill my water.
We both spoon generous second helpings onto our plates and somehow still manage to clean them, sopping up the last of the gravy with paneer. While we feast, he asks me questions, none of them probing, but instead curious—about my life with Aidan, my friends, what I love about my work and about living in this city.
“The general manager is leaving,” I find myself telling him. “And some friends and co-workers have been telling me to apply.”
“Would you enjoy the work?” he asks.
Such a simple question, but I struggle to devise a simple answer.
“I’d be really good at it,” I respond, finishing my last sip ofwine while Hugh stands to clear the table. “I know what it takes to run that club, and I have all the skills.”
“Of course,” he replies, setting the bowls in the sink and then opening the freezer. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the job for you.”
“That’s what I need to work out,” I say, watching as he busies himself in the kitchen, his back turned away from me, then returns with two bowls, each filled with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, slices of mango, and a single sprig of mint.
“I’m certain of this,” he says, sitting across from me again. “The club would be fortunate to have you in charge.”
Sinking my spoon into dessert, then savoring the sweet combination of creamy ice cream and bright, bold mango, I’m struck that Hugh doesn’t for a moment question whether I’m qualified, and it’s so glorious—to be with a man who simply assumes I’m competent and capable.
When we’ve finished—a damn near perfect dessert, I decide—I follow Hugh into the small kitchen area. He pulls out two storage containers and hands them to me, and I spoon the meager leftovers into them, while he fills the sink with soapy water and begins to hand wash dishes.
I open the refrigerator, set the containers beside neatly ordered jars of yogurt, a pint of berries, and orange juice that looks to be freshly squeezed—thinking, for a moment, what it would be like to wake up in this apartment with Hugh and share a simple breakfast.
“So where will you be making your comfort foods next?” I ask, my chest tightening at the thought of him leaving. I know I don’t have the right to feel this way, since we’ve only just met, so I struggle to brighten my tone, and ask, “What grand city will you be moving to, once the Emory gig is up?”
“Copenhagen is next on the itinerary,” he says, taking a clean dishrag from the drawer and beginning to dry his hands. “But I’m so enjoying these warm Georgia nights”—he gestures toward the screened window beside us, where moonlight shines through a magnolia—“I may just have to stay awhile longer.”
The promise of his words hangs in the humid air between us.I don’t want to ruin the moment with questions of logistics, of whether that might even be possible. What do I know about professors and their work? About how long a person can be officially “visiting” a university and not wear out his welcome? I can’t imagine someone like Hugh Pridmore ever wearing out his welcome, at least not with me.
Before I can second-guess my decision, before I can think about how fleeting this all might be, I take a step to stand behind him at the sink, place a hand on his waist, and tug, so that he turns to face me. He lets out a soft sigh, and as Coltrane’s “Lush Life” pours through the room, I put a hand on his chest and push him gently against the counter. He lets the towel drop to the floor, wraps his arms around my waist, and pulls me in, then leans down to press a kiss against my throat.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first moment I saw you,” he whispers into my ear, “knocking frantically against the window of my lab, with your hair up in that loose bun.”
I wrap my free hand around the back of his neck, feeling the rough stubble, just as I had imagined it. I lean away, look into his eyes. “You mean, when I interrupted your very important research with my silly little lies?”
