I catch a strange smell and bring them to my nose. Overlaying the slightly cloying scent of the decaying flowers is sulfur. I eye my drain suspiciously. Must be the garbage disposal got funky again. Puring a big glob of soap down it, I turn it on and let the water run while I walk the roses over to the trash can.
I head back to the sink, but it smells fine now, so I turn off the horrible grinding noise. Since I’m in the kitchen, I might as well whip up some dinner. I turn on some streaming music from my phone to dance while I cook.
Poking around the fridge for inspiration, I rustle up some sad spinach in the vegetable bin. I throw that on the counter and keep digging, coming up with some heavy cream that is surprisingly not expired and a hunk of parm.
Looking over the mishmash of ingredients, I think I'll mix them all together into a pasta dish. I scrounge some spicy Italian sausage from the freezer and throw that into a pan to thaw, while I continue to dig through my pantry. I pull out a box of the cassava pasta I keep on hand and root around in the back for something fun. Jackpot–sundried tomatoes for pizzazz.
While the sausage thaws in the pan, I dice garlic and onions. I haven’t cooked like this in a long time, and it feels good. Dancing around the kitchen, I stir the sausage in my streamlined attempt to get it thawed and cooked. I'm not a chef by any means, but I'm optimistic about how this will taste.
Once the sausage looks like it's on its way, I get the pasta started. I excitedly realize I have gluten-free garlic bread in the freezer, so I pop that in the oven, too. My mouth waters in anticipation.
I sauté the onions and garlic, get fancy by deglazing the pan with some chicken stock that should be used up, and finally mix everything to let the flavors simmer and the sauce thicken.
The heavy cream sauce seems so decadent that I can’t wait to try it. I think I'll call it Lieshe’s pasta. Guessing it's done, I wilt in the spinach and realize I have made an inordinate amount of food.
I transfer it to a serving bowl and pull the garlic bread from the oven.How will I ever eat all this?I think. I wish, not for the first time, that I had someone to share my life with. Or at least this much food with.
And then it hits me. I have a very handsome, and I think more than a little sad, next-door neighbor. He said he wanted to talk. I have a ton of food. Maybe this could be a two-birds, one-stone situation.
How should I approach this? If I invite him over, he could say no, but if I bring the food over there and he says no, I could still leave some of it there. Although I was upset that I hadn’t heard from him in so long, he could have any number of reasonable excuses why.
If I really think about it, I am not giving him much of a chance. I had felt such a deep connection to him after the mirror incident that I feel that I at least owe him the opportunity to talk to me as he had asked, and this peace offering is the perfect olive branch.
I cover the pasta, then wrap the garlic bread in foil to keep it warm and balance it on top. I pop into the bathroom to freshen up my hair and decide to spend a quick minute on my makeup.
And, what the hell, I head into the closet to change up my outfit. I put on a matching bra and panty set to boost my confidence and throw on a summer dress printed with bats, a pair of knee highs, and patent platform boots. I toss my phone, wallet, and keys into my red coffin backpack so I can have both hands free to carry the food.
Picking up the precarious tower, I head over to my new neighbor’s house. The sun highlights the clouds on the horizon, pink and purple in its descent. As I turn from the alley to the main road, the brilliant light of the golden hour gilds the Grimm sign above my store.
I am filled with pride over my successful oddities business and the work I’ve put in over the years to get to where I am today. My pride bolsters my confidence as I approach McHottie’s front door and knock. If I can be a kick ass business woman, I can knock on his door.
I wonder what he will say and then I wonder if he is home at all as the minutes drag by until he comes to the door, and I wonder no more. His mouth falls open for a beat when he sees me standing at his door. Then his face lights up with a glorious smile, crinkling his eyes that are flooded with warmth.
Ifeelhis joy infuse into my marrow, sliding home as if it was created for me. It’s the same feeling as when I fit the antique skeleton key into the lock on the door of Grimm. Two pieces created to form a perfect union together, whose only purpose of existence is to be joined.
I ponder this revelation as I see him standing there in the golden light of the setting sun. It brings out the blue highlights in his black hair and sets his amber eyes on fire. His white button down is untucked and has a couple of buttons undone to expose some of his chiseled chest. I can just make out some swirls of dark ink through his white shirt. I’m desperate to explore his tattoos and their meaning.
The dark jeans seem to emphasize the length of his legs. My gaze drops to his bare feet, feeling oddly intimate. Like I’ve caught him truly relaxed.
Blown away by the picture he cuts and the feelings he conjures, I stammer out, “I, uh, I made a lot of dinner and was hoping for someone to share it with?”
I hold the food out toward him like the peace offering it is. He holds my eyes for what feels like an eternity until, at last, he steps back, inviting me in.
I walk past him into his home, surrounded by his leather and tobacco smell. The faintest hint of rain teasing at my senses as I brush past him. I stand in his entryway, admiring the dark masculine colors and framed art. He walks down the hall and I follow him into a beautiful, modern kitchen.
I set the food down on a large island, appreciating the elegant black marble countertops. The room is exquisite, with deep green cabinets and black tiles offset by gold hardware and fixtures. The pendant lights are gold mercury glass with Edison bulbs. It’s magazine-worthy and exactly what I would have picked for this building.
I wonder if he is an amazing cook in the face of this fancy kitchen and worry about the dinner I haphazardly threw together. I kick myself for not tasting it before I brought it over. This could be a disaster of epic proportions.
“I just realized I didn’t even try this. I hope it’s okay,” I blurt out, suddenly unsure of myself.
“I’m sure it will be perfect.”
He holds my gaze as his words wash over me. It’s been so long since it was just him and me, that I wonder anew at his beautiful accent and the slow, measured cadence of his words.
“White or red?” he asks.
“Um, white?”
