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Rather than saying it, I simply point to the jar before spearing a sliced strawberry with my fork.
“There is no shame in loving garlic. If I knew you loved it, I would have added it to the hash browns. Normally, when I make my own, I add at least three or four cloves of garlic. The more, the merrier.”
Shock registers in my expression. “Three or four? In a single serving? That’s a lot of damn garlic, baby. You worried about vampire attacks?” I joke.
“Ha-ha,” she deadpans. “No, goofball. With anything else, you build a tolerance level over time. What would be a potent level of garlic to some, I barely taste. What can I say—it’s not just my favorite food, but it is also good for you.” She shrugs off her response as if it should be public knowledge.
“Next time, just add the garlic in with the potatoes. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
“Alright, big shot. As long as you promise not to bitch about it,” she prompts me.
I hold up my right hand. “I swear I won’t complain—” I hesitate, but continue. “Much.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, crossing her eyes and cocking her head to the side. And I fall a little harder.
We spend the work-free day driving all over. She takes me to downtown St. Petersburg, where we stroll along Beach Drive, check out some of the storefronts and visit the Dali Museum. So much of downtown has changed and it is as if I am in a whole new version of an old city.
The St. Petersburg Pier is no longer there. Cora tells me it was torn down about five or six years ago. Now, a large outdoor area has taken its place. A restaurant sits closer inland and the pier is more outdoor activity focused. It is kind of weird to wander around here and not see the old inverted pyramid building. I had so much fun there as a kid. Hopefully the city builds something that adds more flare to the current structure, which seems blah in comparison.
The Dali has also been relocated and looks nothing like the original. Now it resembles a piece of art and is amazing without even stepping foot inside. But we do walk through the exhibit. Dali’s work has always fascinated me, with all the droopy clocks and ants or distorted images of his wife. One of my favorites is the Geopoliticus Child. It just reaches me on some strange level; intrigues me.
When we leave the Dali, we opt to leave Cora’s car in the garage we parked in earlier. Hand in hand, we stroll along the waterfront near the marina and eventually walk toward the shops and restaurants. After about ten minutes, we are trekking down First Avenue North.
As we head for the entrance of a restaurant to grab lunch, I push out a quiet laugh at her choice of location. No matter how much time has passed, some things about her will always be predictable. And I love that those parts of her remain. That time hasn’t changed her completely. She is still the same girl I fell in love with. Only now, she is one-hundred-percent woman.
“Are you laughing at me?” she insinuates.
I squeeze her fingers with mine. “You’re joking, right? I mean, I should have guessed we’d be h
aving Asian for lunch,” I tease.
“Why mess with a good thing.” It is all she says, her shoulders shrugging as if eating what you love should be a given. I suppose she is right.
The hostess seats us at a table, handing us menus and letting us know our server will be with us soon. As my eyes dance over the options—sushi and non-sushi alike—I am a bit overwhelmed at the options available.
“Do you know what you’re getting?” I ask Cora, praying her order will guide me in some direction.
She taps a finger to her lip. “We’re about to see what you really think about me,” she states, her words cryptic and confusing the hell out of me.
“Huh?”
Laughter bursts from her lips, dying quickly before she rambles off her intended order. “Here we go… I’m getting an order of spring rolls, seaweed salad, the vegetable ramen—which comes with a salad—and a yam yam sushi roll minus the eel sauce.”
My gaze locks in place, the sight of her blurring. Is she going to actually eat all of that?
“Um. Is there something you’re not telling me? That’s a lot of food for just one person.”
Cora just shakes her head at me. “Nope. I like ordering a lot so I have leftovers to take home. I won’t eat it all while we’re here. Swear,” she states with a giggle.
Thank fuck. I was seriously worried some other reason had her ordering enough food for two.
“Maybe I won’t need to order anything if you’re getting so much,” I taunt.
“Makes no difference to me. But you should get whatever you want to eat.” Then she smiles and I forget what to do. I snap out of my Cora-fog and shake my head, internally laughing at myself and how easily she sidetracks me.
I scan the menu one last time as the server approaches. Gesturing for her to order first, she prattles off her mile-long lunch order. When the server looks to me, I feel like a pussy for only ordering a shrimp tempura appetizer and a Tampa roll. As if we reversed roles in the food consumption department and my masculinity has been knocked down a couple notches.
We chat while we wait for our food. And once everything is spread out on the table before us, to say I am overwhelmed would be an understatement. Everything has its own dish and there are currently seven dishes on our tiny two-person table. Seven. But I’m intrigued to see how much she actually does eat.
