Etienne: I’m thinking we push to six miles today.
Ophelia: And I’m thinking we don’t run at all, and you come over hungry.
Etienne: ?
Ophelia: Just don’t eat a lame cafeteria dinner, and let me do something nice as a thank you for all your help.
Ophelia: You can run six miles tomorrow.
Etienne: If you say so…
Ophelia was ready, and she knew that she couldn’t keepholding Etienne’s Wednesday nights hostage. But she didn’t want to tell him she no longer needed lessons. She wanted to lie and continue running with him every Wednesday night, but maybe they could still do that occasionally. If he wanted to.
After work, Ophelia started the gumbo. She had had every intention of starting it around noon, but work got in the way. She could technically have a gumbo ready in three hours, but it was best if the gumbo sat for a beat to let all the flavors come together. Nothing she could do about it now. She would feed Etienne her almost-ready gumbo and send him home with leftovers so he could have the real deal the following day.
At eight o’clock, Ophelia heard a knock on the door. The gumbo was simmering and almost complete. She just needed to chop and add the okra and finish seasoning.
“Hey, come on in,” she said, opening the door for Etienne.
“Damn. It smells good in here.” Etienne walked into her kitchen and took the lid straight off the gumbo pot. “O, you trying to make me fall in love?”
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Ophelia could tell that he regretted them. Heat crawled up her neck.
“You should be so lucky,” joked Ophelia to smooth over the awkwardness. “I’m almost done. Why don’t you grab yourself something to drink from the bar cart?”
“The usual red for you?”
“Yes, please.”
Ophelia started chopping the okra while Etienne rummaged around the bar cart.
“The wine glasses are in the right cabinet of the cart,” called Ophelia over her shoulder.
“Got’em,” responded Etienne just as Tigger darted out from under the bar cart with a banshee scream and flew onto the kitchen counter where Ophelia was cooking.
Ophelia screamed in surprise and alarm. “Tigger!” she yelled. “Tigger, you chaotic bitch. Fuck!” Ophelia quickly grabbed the nearest dish towel to cover the tips of her left pointer and middlefinger, which she had practically chopped off because of Tigger’s surprise attack.
“Shit, you okay?” Etienne rushed over to her.
“I cut the tips of my fingers.” She winced. “Because of her.” She shot Tigger a scowl. In response, Tigger figure-eighted through her legs in apology and emitted the most pathetic and sorrowful meow Ophelia had ever heard.
“Tigger, you have got to be more careful. You can’t keep surprise attacking people from the bar cart.”
“Let me see your hand,” Etienne said as he reached for her towel-wrapped hand.
“It’s fine. Just need some Band-Aids,” she responded as he lifted off the towel.
Etienne chuckled. “Did you forget that I’m a Traiteur? I’ll fix you up.” He lightly touched her hip and guided her to her kitchen island.
“Take a seat,” he said, patting the counter, and then wrapped both hands around her hips to lift her onto the counter. That familiar ache that she had been trying to suppress for months returned with a vengeance. It was so strong and heady, she felt like she could pass out from it. There was no foul smell like Mateo, just the smell of Etienne’s skin, tree bark, fresh air, and soap. Etienne grabbed some paper towels and wetted them in the sink. He held out his hands. “Let me see.”
Ophelia extended her left hand with the towel clumsily wrapped around it. When he lifted the towel off her hand, she winced as the movement disturbed the sensitive flesh.
“This isn’t too bad. You don’t need those fingertips anyway,” he said.
Ophelia leveled a stare at him. “So you go with funny for your bedside manner, huh?”
Etienne gently wiped the blood away from the pads of her fingers. “For patients, yes. But for my actual bedside manner, I think I’m more attentive, I would say.”
