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“Looking.”
“For?”
“I don’t know. Something to criticize.”
I laugh. “Find anything?”
“Your spice organization is a disaster. Who puts paprika next to cinnamon?”
“Someone who doesn’t care.”
“Clearly. Your paprika is one bad day away from waking up in an apple pie.” He appears at my elbow, stealing a piece of tamagoyaki straight from the pan. I swat his hand, but he’s already eaten it, grinning smugly. “Also, your knives are dull.”
“They work fine.”
“Do you also think a gun works fine as long as you can throw it hard enough?”
He’s hyper, I realize. Bouncing slightly on his toes, talking too fast, his eyes bright and restless. Post-orgasm energy, probably, mixed with nerves he’s trying to burn off. I am pretty sure something is on his mind and he doesn’t know how to bring it out.
He flits from the counter to the fridge to the window, touching things, rearranging things, narrating his thoughts in a stream-of-consciousness ramble.
“Why do you have three kinds of soy sauce? That’s excessive. Oh, you have the good miso paste. Is that spider plant dying? It looks like it’s dying. You should water it. Or throw it out. Do you even like plants? I don’t think you like plants. You’re more of a ‘let everything die’ kind of person. Except me. You won’t let me die. That’s sweet. Are you almost done? I’m starving. I’m always starving after you fuck me. That’s also your fault.”
I plate the food and set it on the small table by the window. “Sit.”
He does, still talking. “This smells good. I didn’t know you could cook at first. I thought you just ate protein bars.”
“Eat,” I say, sitting across from him.
He does. For about ten minutes he is quiet, focused on the food. We finish eating, and I clear the plates while he stays at the table, quieter now. The hyper energy has burned off. He’s picking at the edge of his sleeve, his gaze distant.
I sit back down across from him. “What’s on your mind?”
He doesn’t answer right away, then he swallows and says, “Will you come with me somewhere today?”
“Yes.”
He blinks, surprised. “You don’t even know where.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It could be dangerous.”
“Then I’ll keep you safe.”
“It could be boring.”
“Then I’ll be bored with you.”
He stares at me, nibbling on his lip, and then looks away. “I want you to meet someone.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just okay?”
“Just okay.”
He huffs, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re too easy.”
