Meanwhile, Jae is something else, himself.
His black hair is swept off his face by a pair of square Ray-Bans atop his head, and a red corduroy button up makes his brown eyes look especially golden brown, like cookie butter. There is simply no way to describe them other thandelicious.His form-fitting jeans make me swoon in a way that’s totally inappropriate for the type of date we are about to go on.
I want to unzip his skin and climb inside like some kind of freak. I beg my brain not to say that aloud.
“You’re one to talk.”
“Ready?” he asks.
“One sec,” I step out and lock the door behind me. “I didn’t know you did pick-up and drop-off service.” Is it normal for your date to meet you at your door?
“Only for those who deserve it.”
We walk out of the building arm in arm, and I feel like I’m being walked to the prom. The only thing I’m missing is the corsage on my wrist. Getting on the train feels like something out of a romantic comedy and I can hardly contain myself.
I sit in the only empty seat, and Jae hangs onto the bar above my head, his chiseled torso approximately at my eye level. I just want to be at the restaurant, sitting on Jae’s lap. What has gotten into me? Every time I think of something suggestive, I act so surprised at myself, unable to believe I’m capable of such thoughts. But is it really that far-fetched for a grown woman to think about a crush?
The train flies by the two stops and we walk so fast, it feels like Jae has essentially teleported me from my apartment to the restaurant. The restaurant is dark, and Jae carefully seats me at the single set table. He lights candlesticks on a brass candelabraon either end of the bar I never noticed before. He lights two more attached to the wall, and then disappears into the kitchen.
I am exalted. Is all of this just for me?
It is.
Jae emerges with two orange cocktails that he describes as Italian Blood Orange Soda but without the cream.
“And with no alcohol,” he confirms after I ask.
I gingerly take a sip and confirm for myself.
I smile up at him, and he clasps his hands as if he were my waiter, and then backtracks into the kitchen, and I giggle at the sight of him doing a light skip through the door. I can’t wait to see what he’s cooked up for us. Surely, it’s going to be fantastic. So I’m surprised when he emerges with a large tray, a bowl of meat and several dozen dumpling wrappers.
When I question what’s going on, all he says is, “We’re making dumplings. Don’t over flour, don’t overfill and you’ll be good.” Jae mocks up a simple wrap up for me, a simple method where you pinch the ends of the dough together in the center, and then on either side. Then, you bring the ends of your semi-circle together to form a little round ball with a divot in the center. Seems easy enough.
I give it a go, and while it’s a little haphazardly done, Jae gives it a smile of approval. He works on other complicated techniques involving complicated pinching and twisting of dough. I have never felt so clumsy with my hands.
“Is this how you felt when I tried to show you how to paint?” I ask, holding up a disaster of a dumpling. He made it look so easy, but I’m struggling still.
“Yes, almost exactly.” Jae smiles bashfully. He stands up and walks around to where I’m sitting opposite him. “Let me show you.”
He spoons a clump of meat into a fresh wrapper and lifts it onto my cutting board. “Put your hands here.” He shows mewhere to put my hands, just barely holding onto the pliable dough. Placing his hands over mine, covered in flour, he goes through the motions.
“Don’t pinch too hard,” he instructs. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Bring the ends to meet in the middle.”
“Meet in the middle?”
“Meet in the middle.”
He places a perfectly, well done dumpling on the tray. I spoon myself a lump of meat into a new wrapper, trying to follow what he told me.Pinch. Pinch. Pinch. Meet in the middle.
I hold up a marginally better dumpling.
“Not bad, he laughs. “Now, I’ll do the rest.”
“I think that’s for the best.”
