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Me:You remember how to get here?
Ensley:Maybe. You inviting me over?
Me:I owe you an omelet.
Ensley:So breakfast for dinner?
I almost type inyoufor dinner, but I control myself.
Me:It’s the best dinner.
Ensley:Okay. An address would help, then.
I send it to her. Sasha hops onto the counter and sniffs at the onion, then backs away slowly as if it’s the enemy.
“Not exactly your cuisine,” I say.
She sits and peers up at me, looking like an innocent angel with her white fluff of fur. You’d never know that she completely derailed my night.
She delicately sniffs the air, not quite believing that all the smells on the counter are as horrible as the one she investigated.
I return to chopping, keeping my eye on her so that she doesn’t unexpectedly bolt under my blade. I peel potatoes, creating fine julienne sticks. Hash browns will go great with these omelets. Now that I have a guest, I might as well go all out.
It’s been a while since I cooked for anyone but myself. I can’t remember when.
Back when I hosted guy nights, we ordered food and drank beer, watching sports and movies, occasionally playing poker. I certainly didn’t cook for them.
When was the last one of those nights? I can’t quite remember. Had I known the last one would indeed be the last? The gatherings definitely dwindled after I opened the clinic. The first year was pure adrenaline, late nights and weekends, too, between patients and finding a schedule and systems that worked, plus renovating parts of the building.
Then the years started racing. The guys all got married. Franklin was the last.
Sasha curls up on the dish towel. I turn on the radio, listening to a pop station of bubbly upbeat tunes, because I have a feeling that’s what Ensley likes. She sometimes hums Lady Gaga at the front desk.
I wash the bell peppers and slice them into chunks. Food does what you tell it, mostly. Following a recipe is neat and orderly. Ingredients don’t let you down, not unless you’ve made the mistake of letting them rot.
Unlike my life. Ever since that wedding, it seems half of my existence has a mind of its own.
I can’t blame Ensley. I could have easily shot her directly out of my life. I didn’t have to respond to her emails. I certainly didn’t have to text or call her.
If anything, most of the moves have been mine.
I separate my onion, peppers, tomatoes, and potatoes into bowls to be ready for assembly.
It’s too early to crack eggs, but I remove the chunk of cheddar from the refrigerator to grate by hand.
The idea that she’s coming is nice. Something to look forward to. I haven’t had a lot of that lately.
I’m so deep in these unfamiliar thoughts that I’m startled when there’s a knock at the door.
Sasha opens one weary blue eye, miffed that she’s been disturbed. I pet her head and walk past her to the front door.
I’m in completely unfamiliar territory here. I will not be following my usual playlist. Compliment, fiery kiss against a door, and sex.
I’m cooking. We’re having a meal at my house.
I’m outside my norm.
When I open the door, she’s there, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt printed with a bright rainbow across it. She looks every bit the ray of sunshine she now endeavors to be. Her hair is pulled back in a wild curly ponytail, coiled tendrils around her face.
