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Gray
After work, we walk in silence to the market halfway home. He’s a pain in the ass to walk with, always speeding ahead or stopping dead to look at something interesting, so I just set a steady pace and ignore him. Standing in the chilly twilight, jostled by people pushing in and out of the shops, I find one of my gold cards and hold it up in two fingers between us. “Use this. I’m going home.”
“My own company credit card.” He tucks it lovingly into his pocket.
“You wish.”
Forty minutes later, he clatters through the front door of the apartment in a cloud of cold air and noise, killing my ability to focus on my newest biography,Steve Jobs. “Don’t snoop,” he demands, piling a load of bags on the counter and running down the hall. I hear the thump of him going down three or four stairs at a time, then the slam of his bedroom door.
“Jesus.” I slide down on the couch and put my book over my face. Renting him an entirely separate flat would have been less of a headache than having him as a roommate.
A minute later he’s back in sweatpants and a fitted black Nike shirt, skidding across the kitchen floor on his socks. “Pretend I’m not here,” he suggests, like someone could sleep through a tornado hitting their house. “Actually, can you just leave?”
I huff incredulously. “Did you just ask me to leave my own living room?”
He pretends to look contrite. “Sorry. Please?”
“You’re lucky I need to work out.” Stretching my tense shoulders, I stand up. “But don’t pull that shit again.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s digging through his purchases, not listening at all.
Halfway through my treadmill run, mouthwatering scents start to drift down the stairs. I figured out that he wanted to cook supper, but I assumed a guy like him might think hot dogs were the pinnacle of home cooking. This smells like I’m in a five-star restaurant.
The unfamiliar sound of pop music blasted through a phone speaker assaults me as I climb the stairs. Jonah is searing something on the stove with his back to me, bopping his ass in time to the beat. He may be short, but he’s no twink, and that is not a twink ass. That ass lifts. I will forever regret only getting one glimpse of it in my living room yesterday. I should have eaten him out instead of feeding him my cock. The noises he would have made.
I lean silently on the counter as my inspection of his ass turns to admiration at how he manages two pans and a chopping board more efficiently than I would be able to with both hands and an assistant. When he notices me watching his aggressive use of the chef’s knife, he grins. “It’s not like I have any fingers to lose. I hope you like crab, because I forgot to ask.”
“I like all foods.”
He turns on me. “Let me guess. You only see food as nutrient blocks that give you the energy to work more.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So what nutrient blocks have you prepared for me today?”
“Lemon and parsley crab cakes with bacon-wrapped asparagus.” He flushes a little at the look on my face. “It’s notthatspecial.”
Fascinated, I circle the island and peer over his shoulder at the tray of perfect, uniform asparagus spears. The concentration that must have taken. “I could have helped. I used to cook some, back when I lived in Seattle.”
Before I can snag a scrap of bacon stuck to the bottom of the pan, he grabs my wrist and propels me firmly toward the dining table. “Will you just sit down and let me finish?”
When he presents me with a plate of perfectly round, golden crab cakes and finely seared asparagus, I have to admit that he’s a better chef than I could ever dream of being. Instead of waiting for me to sample the dish, he drops in the chair across from me and digs in like he hasn’t seen food in months. I realize with a twinge of guilt that we skipped lunch and he didn’t complain at all.
“What do you think?” he asks, mouth full.
“It’s very good. Can you not watch me eat, please?”
He picks up his chair and rotates it so he’s eating at right angles to me, balancing his plate on his knees. “This is to say thanks for everything and I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
After considering a moment, he shrugs. “Sometimes I say it preemptively, just in case.” I guess he’s joking, at least I hope he is, but there’s something so painful about the way he says it, dutifully staring at the wall because I told him not to look at me.
“Who taught you to cook?”
He perks up. “My mom never learned how, so when we went to potlucks, she had to bring ready-made food.” Sliding his plate onto the table, he grimaces. “Where I come from, that’s about the worst thing you could do short of murdering someone. It made her really sad, and she stopped eating healthy. So, I decided to learn.”
“How?”
“I dunno. Videos and just trying things out. If I messed up our groceries by experimenting, I’d use my allowance to buy more.” He stops, studying my face. “Come on, don’t feel sorry for me. I love cooking. And not just because I get to eat it all at the end.”
