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*.*.*
It’s almost eight, and I have to admit that I’m a little anxious about having Xander in my home.I fluff the pillow on the couch one more time and then hear the knock at the door.
I glance toward the kitchen clock, eight o’clock.The dinner plates are in the oven keeping warm.A bottle of red wine is on the table, and beer is in the fridge.
With one last deep breath, I turn the knob and pull open the door.
White shirt, folded sleeves, pulled up a quarter of the way.Black jeans and a pair of white leather sneakers.Damn.
“Come on in, Profess...Xander,” I catch myself.
He brings his arm from behind his back and hands me a bouquet of flowers.Surprised because, well, this is not a date, right?
I reach out, accepting them, “I was taught to never go anywhere empty-handed.”I nodded with appreciation, “They are beautiful, thank you,” and stepped aside for him to enter.
“Let me get these in some water, make yourself comfortable.”I excuse myself to the kitchen and grab a vase from under the sink, fill it halfway with water, add the flowers, and place them in the center of the table alongside the wine.
When I return, he is still standing, “I said to make yourself comfortable,” I gesture to the couch.He sits and rubs his hands on the front of his thighs.I sit next to him, “Did you want to watch some T.V., or are you here to eat and run?”I say jokingly.
“If I’m honest, I’m not sure.”He rubs his hands again nervously.
“I won’t bite, well, not unless you want me to,” I whisper, lean back against the couch, grab the remote, and turn on the television.
*.*.*
XANDER
What the fuck is wrong with me?I can’t stop sweating.I’m nervous as hell.It’s just dinner.
“You insisted I come for dinner, so here I am.”I sit forward and intertwine my fingers feeling restless.
“And you were on time.Are you hungry because it is ready,” she states, lifting herself from the couch and walking toward the kitchen?Her cotton fabric dress nicely hugs all her curves, leading my eyes to the exposed skin which has been kissed by the sun this past summer.
I take a deep breath, stand and run my hand through my hair, “I appreciate it, but maybe I should leave.We really shouldn’t be doing this.”
“What exactly should we not be doing?”She pulls a plate from the oven, then the other, placing them on the table.
“Co-workers can eat together, can’t they?”she asks, and if she didn’t look so innocent, I’d swear she was the devil herself.
Maybe she is.
I smirk, feeling embarrassed, and walk into the kitchen.I pull out the chair for her to sit, then walk around the table.
“Yes, we can,” I say, taking the seat across from her.“It smells amazing,” I admit as she hands me a small bowl with an antipasto salad.An appetizer platter of mozzarella sticks, garlic knots, potato skins and fried zucchini sticks sits to the side.I place the salad bowl to the right of the main course, chicken parmigiana with linguini.
“You made all this?”I ask, lifting my fork and pulling the salad closer.
“I had a little help,” she places a black olive in between her lips and sucks it into her mouth.
“From whom?”I ask, curious who the cook in her family may be.When I look up, I have no choice but to swallow hard, watching her lick the oil from her plump lips.
“The Wig Wam and Vitale’s,” she says, smiling.She glances down, picks up her napkin, and covers her mouth.We both laugh at her admission of not being a cook, and all the tension in the room subsides.
*.*.*
KENI
After dinner, we sat and had coffee while watching a sitcom.He soon excused himself to get home and grade papers, giving me the night off from doing the boring task.
“I appreciate the night off.This was fun.Thank you for coming.”I lean in, kiss his cheek, and hold the door open as he steps through the archway.
“It was.Thank you for having me.Since you paid for dinner tonight, the next time, it’s on me.”With a wink, he walks down the few steps, up the sidewalk, and to the right.
Next time?
