“Why gold?”
“Because gold catches light differently. It photographs well. It looks good on any skin tone.”
I nod, lips twitching despite myself.
“It’s really good work.”
“You… think so?”
“I do. Show me the others.”
She beams and whips around to look for more designs. She’s glowing.
“This one,” she says, “is a dress—the big thing is the back. It fits like a glove from the front, but from behind it’s sculptural. See this curve? That’s where the stitching highlights.”
She talks with her hands, dreams pouring out of her. I watch her passion, brilliance, joy.
She’s so beautiful when she’s like this—not the towel, not the legs, not the lips—this.
I want her to talk like this every day. I want to know everything she cares about.
I swallow the emotion and offer a small smile. “I like it.”
The hiss of sauce spilling over makes us both turn.
“Shit!” she runs to kill the heat and save the sauce.
I glance back at the sketches and do something I never expected: I pick up my phone and start taking pictures, one by one, storing them without her knowing. When she glances back, I pretend I’m checking emails.
“Do you… have any of these actually made?” I ask, keeping my voice indifferent.
She pauses mid-stir. “I can’t believe you’re interested.”
I shrug. “If we’re living together, we need shit to talk about.”
She squints. “You’re very weird.”
“Answer the question. Do you have any finished?”
“Yeah… tons. I have an atelier I rent. I’m working on new pieces, but I have a lot already finished.”
Good. If someone’s going to look at these, she’ll need pieces ready.
I glance at the black suit with gold stitching. I’d look good in that. No. I’d look fucking insane in that.
“I’ll… keep that in mind,” I say.
“For what?”
“Conversation.”
“Alright, Captain.” She turns, lifts the wooden spoon. “Taste.”
I stare at the spoon. “No.”
“Why not?” She raises a brow. “Scared I’ll poison you?”
I’m scared I’ll like being spoon-fed too much.
