Page 118 of Levi

“Touch me.”

I chuckle against his shoulder. “Oh, I plan to. I’m a touchy-feely guy. You’re forewarned. Get used to it.”

I let go of him, get up and put on shorts.

“Anywhere you have to be?” I ask a couple of minutes later from the kitchen.

“No.” He calls out from the bedroom. “Nothing till the afternoon.”

I get the coffee going. The cafetera is where it lives, back left burner. Water in the bottom, the basket packed with Bustelo and tamped firm, the lid down, the flame caught under it. I stand there and wait for the hiss.

He comes out in jeans, shirtless, feet bare, and sits at the kitchen table.

I lose count on the coffee. Sleep-warm and rumpled, all that country muscle in the morning light, jeans riding low on his hips — and he’s mine to look at now. So I take my time and I look. Then I make myself turn back to the stove before I burn my grandmother’s coffee over a man’s bare shoulders. I pour two cups, small and dark, and set his in front of him. He wraps both hands around it and drinks.

“Good Lord.” He stares deep into the cup. “What kind of coffee is this anyway?”

“Bustelo.”

“My heart’s going double time.” He pushes the cup back across the table. “Another please. With a little mixer in it this time.”

I scald the milk, pour the next shot into it, set the café con leche down, and pull the Cuban bread out of the freezer. He squints at it.

“Why are you using frozen bread?” he asks.

“It’s special Cuban bread.”

“It’s frozen solid.”

“I brought it back from Miami in a checked bag. Same thing I do every trip. There’s no version of it up here worth eating.”

“Are you telling me there’s nobody in the Panhandle that can bake you a loaf of bread?”

“Not good Cuban bread. At least, none that I’ve found yet.”

Levi comes and leans on the counter where he can watch me cook, coffee in hand, close enough that his shoulder brushes against mine when I reach for the pan. He doesn’t move it away. Testing the new rule in daylight. I bump his ribs with my elbow on purpose, and the last of the morning’s stiffness goes out of his back.

The bread goes into the pan. Split, buttered. Eggs after, fried hard in the oil till the edges go brown and lacy, the way my father takes them.

“Who taught you how to cook like this?”

“My mother while my father supervised.”

“Sounds serious,” he says.

“Trust me, it was very serious.”

He laughs. Somewhere between the bread and the eggs he starts humming. Low, under his breath, notes going nowhere in particular. I like listening to him, and I cook the eggs slower than I need to, to make the morning last as long as I can.

He takes his plate to the table and eats fast.

“Would you like more?” I ask, glad to see him eating. “It’ll only take me a minute to put more on.”

“Do you mind?” he asks. “This is really good.”

“I don’t mind,” I tell him. It’s true. Not only do I not mind, I’m enjoying cooking for him. I like him here at my kitchen table, watching me cook, eating my food. Shirtless and barefoot.

I give him more. Eggs, bread. Outside the heat is coming up fast. In here, we’re two men at a table, having a leisurely breakfast.