Love is . . .

First kiss

The kitchen is a mess. Dirty dishes are piled up in the sink. The counter has no space to cut. The stove has the remains of several spilled meals, and coke bottles, bags of un-emptied trash, plastic wrappings coalesce to cover every empty surface. Before I can cook I must clean. There are no sponges in the sink, no soap anywhere to be found, only a washcloth, so I use that. When the counter ceases to look like a jungle I begin getting out all the things I will need.

Cauliflower, potatoes, onions, carrots, Berra brought extra. I go retrieve them. She’s lying on the mattress laughing at one of Aries' jokes. Black hair, with a tiny tint of brown in this light, is pulled back in a ponytail that still succeeds in surrounding her face. Her face is radiant tonight, and even ample cleavage alluringly revealed cannot keep my gaze from her lips. She looks up at me, eyes made anime by glasses, and asks - “do you want some help?” I act casual. “Sure” I say. I was hoping she would ask.    

I’m unsure how to do this. There only seems to be one knife in the place. I burrow about while she stands awkwardly by.  I hand her my knife and say, “Do you want to cut the onions?” ”Only if you want me to cry like a baby,” she replies - “I’m good for the first ten minutes and then - Bam!” She mimes tears, we laugh, she is at ease.

I find a stake knife and set to work on the onions. She gets to quarter the potatoes. We flirt, tease, and talk our way through the cauliflower. She doesn’t know how to quarter carrots. As it turns out, neither do I.

There’s not enough olive oil. I knew I should have brought some. I poor liberally into a casserole dish and begin rubbing potatoes in it. I need them coated so the spices stick. I’m not even worrying about the cauliflower. I know there won’t be enough for that.

“So you really don’t remember that dream?” she asks. I shake my head

"-All I remember is that you were in it” she looks suspicious. As usual I speak before I think. I act on the instinct of a single-minded ram. ”it was childish of me to tell you” ”why?” Her question wakes me. I’m thinking now, and backpedaling wildly ”I just wanted you to know.”

”Know what?” she asks. ”I shan’t say.” My tone is childish, teasing. We’re wandering close. She raises an eyebrow. I speak before I think. ”For the same reason you wouldn’t tell me what the tarot reading was about yesterday” She looks up at me, a deer caught in headlights, and blushes.

The lovers and the world were at the center. Romance and soul, surrounded by a lot of letting go, and a few new patterns entering her life. My patterns. It was then that I knew for sure. ”Yes I know. I’m going to pretend I don’t for a couple more days though.” I flash a teasing grin. She falls back on her questions.

“Why?” I’m testing waters now. If what I say is understood my courage will grow.

“Because like you, I’m afraid of being hurt”

We move off onto hurt and our fears of it, rejection and how I shouldn’t be so afraid. Love that is not returned and how she’s experienced it. My hands are oily and the potatoes churn under my experienced touch. It’s so odd to have experienced hands that can mix vegetables without thought. It’s odd to be so experienced at this game that I can speak before I think.

I have her handing me handfuls of onions and cauliflower. Jen comes in to snitch carrots and I jokingly whip my cleaver down where her fingers had been. Berra jerks her hand back with a shriek. I hadn’t seen her extending vegetables. We’re both breathing hard from the surprise. I’m glad she’s not hurt. We’re both laughing.

She hands me a handful and I mix it in. Berra mentions how nice it is to cook with a guy. It really is a kind of bonding. I rub olive oil and spices into the mix.

“My Mama makes a living off this feeling” I murmur. She laughs. I look over at her

“The answer is yes by the way”  she looks startled.

“The answer to what?” She’s going to make me say it. Why is it that the boy who always has to take the risk? I place my forehead gently against hers.

“Yes I am attracted”

“I was afraid I was reading you wrong.”

“I know”

The vegetables are ready to go into the oven. There are three separate containers for them, a cookie sheet, glass casserole dish, and cast iron skillet.  There’s a dresser stopping the oven from opening completely. I brace myself to move it.

“I don’t think you’re that strong.” she says - "or maybe you are” As I pull it out of the way. I’m more concerned about the mountains of trash balanced on-top then the weight, but I feel a thrill of pride at her words. It’s the way she says them.

We wash dishes together, thrilling to discover little cadences. She loves putting dishes away and hates washing them. My perfect match on that note alone. The kitchen clean we stand in each other’s arms.

“Have you ever been kissed?” she asks.

“When I was seven . . . “ I begin, she laughs.

“I feel like I’m corrupting you!”

“I don’t mind.”

She kisses me.