"You’re welcome."
I allow myself a small smile.
She smiles back.
This time, when our eyes meet, it’s arousing but also strangely comfortable. How strange. I slide off my stool. She follows me.
"About the menu?—"
"Why don’t I tell you on the way to The Edge?"
I unlockthe door to the penthouse. Three turns of the key, left, right, left.
I open the door, step aside, and let my wife precede me in. I step in and sniff her as she walks past.
The scent of vanilla and coconut will never not smell like home.
I close the door behind her.
Lock it. Three turns. Right, left, right.
I close my eyes, listening to the sound of her footsteps echoing across the wooden floor. The clacking of Malice’s paws as she slinks over to her. The purring when she greets her.
The crooning noises my wife makes as she picks up Malice and tucks the cat under her arm.
I don’t need to count the seconds to leave the kitchen behind.Hearing my wife’s soft voice as she murmurs in her baby language to Malice is all I need to transition from Chef Hamilton to…just James.
Keys go in the bowl. Wallet next to it, aligned parallel.
I hang my coat in the entryway closet, on the third hanger from the left. Then I pick up my wife’s coat from where she dropped it on the hallway table. I hang it up next to mine.
I pick up her sneakers from where she’d toed them off.
I like seeing her coats next to mine. And her boots. I glance down at her smaller heeled boots she placed on the floor of the closet, next to my much larger ones. I move mine so they bracket hers. There, much better. I don’t question my need to do that. I simply accept it. The way I’ve come to accept her in my life.
The way Malice has come to accept, even prefer her, over me. I don’t begrudge Malice her preference. If I were my cat, I might do the same.
I head for the kitchen to find Ember has already cut the three pieces of tuna. I retrieve the chilled saucer. Ember smiles her thanks, places the tuna on the saucer and sets it down for Malice.
I drop the container which held the tuna in the recycling bin, rinse the knife and the culinary tweezers she used and place them in the dishwasher, then wipe the counter.
I look up to find my wife watching me closely.
"Everything okay?"
"You’re not going to say anything about the fact that I gave Malice her treat, even though it’s not seven days since her last one?"
That’s how long it’s been since Ember moved in. I’ve added her to my personal calendar; so, she has visibility of my appointments. Which means, she also knows when it’s time to feed Malice.
She’s my sous chef. It makes sense for her to know who my work meetings are with. And she’s my wife. So, it’s only natural that I share that part of my life with her, right?
The strange part? I didn’t feel exposed or vulnerable doing it. It felt right.
I pour a glass of white wine, which I know she prefers as a night cap. Then pour myself some whiskey. We ate earlier at the family meal in the restaurant.
I set it down on the coffee table in the living room, then dim the lights and play classical music. It’s the only kind that helps me unwind.
She heads to the refrigerator, pulls out a tub of Cotton Candy flavored ice cream. Then grabs a spoon, and heads over to join me on the sofa.
