Couldn’t find the saucer to go along with it.
The concert tickets appeared next. Not to a global superstar or to a boy band reunion. Nope. They were to a neighborhood artist playing in a coffee shop. A show I really wanted to see. Yup, I was going to splurge, spend a whole twenty bucks and make a night of it, but the tickets sold out before Evelyn and I remembered to get them. I was left disappointed, until, once again, my silent guest delivered a little miracle.
Other gifts were of a similar nature. Inexpensive things, priceless intent. It let me know he was actually listening to my rambling. Paying attention. This total stranger, the mysterious faceless man without a voice, was learning intimate details about me during our visits. I’m not quite sure how I feel about that.
Yet he kept his relayed promise. In more than a month and a half, he didn’t request anything more, didn’t do anything we didn’t agree on. I talked. He listened.
Like an infatuated schoolgirl, I save the notes he leaves with his presents. They’re hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Safe in an old cookie tin, beneath the starry sky pictured on the lid. Neatly arranged and sorted by the date printed on the page. It makes me smile that he keeps using the torn-out pages of a daily journal. It’s such an odd choice when I think about those notes ending up in such elegant gift boxes.
The note he left for me last week, however, was different. It waited for me in the now familiar white box. Next to a small package of black cumin worth no more than eight bucks. To me, the package of spice was precious, long absent from the stores because of a supply shortage. I must have mentioned that I love adding it to the breads I bake.
The note contained a question:
Can’t you simply use regular cumin instead?
For the first time since we “met,” heaskedfor something in return.
He started a conversation.
“Thank you for the spice,” I launch into tonight’s talk. “And to answer your question… No, regular cumin and black cumin are entirely different spices, despite their similar names. And they have vastly different flavor profiles. Regular cumin is used in a lot of chilis or grilled meats, for example. It’s warm and earthy, with a slightly bitter taste. Black cumin, on the other hand, is sweeter, a little nutty, and has a smoky edge. It’s also very pungent and goes great in all kinds of dishes. Savory stews, as well as aromatic desserts. But the main reason I’ve been so eager to get my hands on black cumin is because of its anti-inflammatory properties. It’s also really great for respiratory and immune health. And—” I stop mid-sentence, then laugh. “I’m sorry, this is probably way more than you ever wanted to knowabout my culinary preferences. It must be incredibly boring to you, right?”
As always, there’s no reply.
“Um… Would you like me to bring a couple of things for you to try next time? You can gauge the difference for yourself.”
My nerves pull tight as I listen to the answering silence, hoping it might get broken this time. Is he upset that I presumed there would be a “next time”? Is he getting sick of me always talking about myself? I mean, that is all I do. Spend hour upon hour yakking about the minutiae of my life, whatever happens to come to mind. And my silent guest merely listens. All while his calming scent envelops me. A subtle ocean breeze. Clean. Refreshing. Like a walk along the beach on a warm, sunny day.
After all these weeks, the only thing I know about this man is the way he smells. The fragrance conveys openness and welcome. So why then does he remain mute? Why does he hide behind the silence? I wish I knew. I wish I were bold enough to ask him that. Instead, I wait.
He doesn’t answer.
I only work at the Annex on Saturday nights, and only if my silent guest makes a booking. Exclusivity. A privilege he’s been paying an extra fee for, I guess. So far, he hasn’t missed any of our weekly “dates.” That’s how I’ve come to think of our encounters. Mostly because it’s the closest thing I have to an actual dating life. That’s probably why I’ve also started to imagine what my untalkative visitor looks like. I’ve been wanting an image in my head of the man’s face to go along with his appealing scent.
I start doing it now. Picturing the man sitting across from me.
He’s tall, dark, and handsome, of course. Maybe a little older. A few grays make him look distinguished. That seems like a thing that would apply to a gentleman who frequents this place. The more I indulge in the fantasy, the sharper his features appear in my mind. An angular face. Maybe glasses, to soften the hard lines. And piercing, ice-blue eyes that lock on to me from behind those lenses. Yeah, he would—
I freeze, back straightening, absolutely horrified by the realization that the man in my head is familiar. I’m picturing Adriano Ruffo sitting across from me in one of his fancy three-piece suits. Listening to my silly stories.
Jesus. I’ve gone completely insane.
I give my head a shake, attempting to forcefully banish thoughts of Adriano Ruffo, but my stubborn brain won’t let go of that image, no matter how hard I try to conjure up somebody else. Anyone except him. But it’s still him in there!
“People…uh…seem to like them. The black cumin pastries, I mean,” I start to babble, saying the first thing that comes to mind so I can purge the idea of Adriano Ruffo sitting with me in this room. “I…um…made these savory Turkish cookies for a...tea party at my other job a while ago. Actually, it wasn’t a real party, or any tea involved. My employer’s wife and I had a good laugh about that. My boss—her husband—he is a… He has a very important role in his, um, company. And because of that, she is kind of obligated to socialize with the wives of…other executives.
“So, it’s really just an afternoon of gossip, but sometimes it drags into the evening. I was ready for that and made tiramisu, as well. It’s good to be prepared, right?”
Nothing.
“Anyway, tiramisu is an Italian delicacy made with coffee-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cheese. You can use a fewteaspoons of chocolate liqueur instead of the coffee one, and that would be super tasty, too, but I like to include Baileys Irish Cream instead. That hint of whiskey flavor and creamy richness adds such a sensual twist to an already amazing indulgence. Have you ever tried tiramisu?”
There’s no response from my guest, as usual. I launch into describing each step of the preparation, from making the filling to dipping the biscuits in coffee, to layering the mascarpone, and finally, generously dusting with cocoa powder. I’m not sure what fantasy my client lives out while he listens to me talk, especially when I go into these brain-numbing recitals of my daily tasks or random issues. I keep waiting for him to ask me to stop, to tell me to just shut up already, but it never happens.
He simply endures.
During one of our earlier meetups, I even talked about some issues in my building, and the screaming match I had with the super about the elevator that hadn’t worked for years, despite the little weasel’s constant assurances that he’d get it repaired. Last week, I gave my silent guest an update on that story. About how I got home on Monday and was amazed to discover our elevator was fixed. Mom and I celebrated by heading out to a local branch of the public library together. Then, I regaled him with a fascinating (not!) tutorial on the best methods of cleaning silverware with only natural products. Today, I guess, was my version of a TED talk on the makings of a bakeless cake.
“Well, you’d love it. The tiramisu I make is my mom’s recipe,” I continue. “A long time ago, when my dad was still alive, Mom dreamed of opening a tiny bakery in our neighborhood. She talked about me going off to college to earn a business or marketing degree so the two of us could run the bakery together someday. That dream was put on hold, though. After my dad died, and then my mom got sick, I dropped out ofhigh school. Paying our bills became more pressing than making desserts.”
