After ending the call, I run downstairs and question everything I know about cooking. I wouldn’t say I’m masterful in the kitchen, but I’m certainly proficient. But what if it’s not enough? After all the delectable baked goods she’s made me, I can’t disappoint her.
Grabbing a mixing bowl, I mix together the ground chicken, black beans, onion, garlic, cumin, and seasonings creating my Southwest burger. Dicing the fruit, I make a mango salsa for the side. I make sure to use ingredients I know she prefers, refraining from cilantro because even though I enjoy it, I know she has the gene that makes it taste like soap.
I make sweet potato wedges on the side in substitution of fries and esquites, the street corn dish. Delighted with my setup, I start warming my coals.
Waiting to put the burgers on, I make a lap through my house, putting away anything related to Lizzy. No need to scare her with my loyalty to her.
Right as I finish, she texts me, and I walk out of my driveway. When I stroll up to her, I’m disappointed to see she’s changed out of her pajama set, but the sweatpants and exercise top she has on are just as alluring.
Her shiny hair is thrown in a bun on top of her head which bounces as she approaches. When she’s within arm’s reach, and without thought, I plop my hand on the bun and ruffle it. She lets out a choked sound.
“What are you doing?” She doesn’t seem upset, just surprised, though I’m horrified by my actions.
“I don’t know.” I redden and drop my hand, appalled at my lack of composure.
The discomfort on my end quickly disintegrates with our comfortable conversation as we walk to my place. She tells me about her day at the zoo and even about lunch with Tom. I try not to be jealous of the geriatric man who sees her as a granddaughter, but it’s difficult. Because he gets to see her every day, and he brings out a smile on her face just at the mention of him.
When we get inside, she sniffs the air my heart palpitates. What if she doesn’t like what I’ve made. Instead, she moans, sending shockwaves through me.
“It smells delicious in here. I thought we were having burgers. It doesn’t smell like it though.” She looks at me inquisitively, so I explain they are technically burgers, just not the classic version of them.
“I love esquites. There’s this small bodega in the city that has the best esquites. It’s so good.” She explains to me, and I listen, pretending I don’t already know about her love for their corn dish. As if I haven’t followed her into that exact building to order her favorite meal behind her. “We should go one day.”
“That sounds like fun. I’d love to try it.” I carry out my ignorance as I lead her to the patio. I throw the burgers onto the grill.
“Would you like something to drink? I have water, milk, sweet tea, coffee…”
She perks up before I can finish just as I knew she would. “You have sweet tea? No one around here has sweet tea. It’s such a shame.”
“I may have bought some when you told me you were from the south. Maybe it’s stereotyping of me, but I was willing to take the gamble that you’d drink it.” And the hundreds of times I’ve seen this exact brand in her fridge may also have helped throw the bet.
After getting our drinks, which I suppress a grimace as I sip on the saccharine drink, we return to my backyard. I have cornhole set up, which she perks up at. We play a game while the burgers heat. I don’t believe in going easy on my opponents, so she lost terribly. She’s a good sport, laughing as her tosses land feet away from the board.
Only when we serve our plates do I realize my mistake. I made the American classic of burgers and fries into a healthier version of itself. What if she thinks I did it because of her? That I want to put her on a diet? Or what if she thinks I’m a health-nut obsessed with eating clean?
But she just digs in. She groans around her first bite, and I have to discreetly adjust myself under the table.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in a while. I had no idea you were such a good cook,” she says around a mouthful.
“If you can read, you can cook, is my take.” I take my first bite and agree with her. This is really good.
She hums her agreement, and we eat in silence. She even gets seconds of my esquites making me feel successful.
Once we finish, I check my watch. “It’s already late and I know you have work tomorrow, so if you want to raincheck the movie, I understand.”
“I can stay. Let’s put something on.” She leads me to the living room as though she belongs in this house. It brings forth countless images of the future I long for.
I grab a blanket for us and sit a respectable distance away from her on the couch. We land on a historical war film that I’ve seen before. And as the minutes pass, she migrates closer and closer to me until her thigh presses against mine. When she rests her head on my shoulder, the contact initiated by her allows me to throw my arm around her and pull her into me.
I can’t concentrate on the movie, not when her warmth seeps into me. Not when her breath tickles my neck, so closeto those pillowy lips. And especially not when her hand lands on my thigh, so close to where it definitely shouldn’t be.
“Hey,” she whispers to me.
I turn my head towards her, unsure how I’m going to form coherent sentences with my body so alight, but it’s a futile thought. Because her lips lock onto mine as soon as they’re within range.
The kiss starts sweet. As her lips dance over mine, her arms find their way along my neck. Warmth blossoms through me as she struggles to move closer to me. Unable to resist her heavenly temptation any longer, I pick her up by her waist and gently lay her on the couch.
My deprived body covers her of its own accord; the blanket lost on the ground. Unbeknownst to me, her knees spread for me and when I lean down, my groin connects with her core.
