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He opened a cupboard and lifted the lid of the trash can, counted them. “Five.” She had the sixth in her hand, and there were more.
“Should you be anywhere around sharp knives?”
“I want to, that’s the problem.”
“With the knives?”
“Fuck you.” Impossible not to want to be with her, for the soul-deep thrill and the peace, the recovery that followed.
“Ah. Tom, you’ve had a bad day and that’s the beer talking.”
“I had a bad day, but it’s not the beer.” Beer didn’t make you see the truth, it made you think what you saw was the truth. Flick was like beer. You never had just one. You got an appetite for it and if you weren’t careful, you overindulged and made yourself sick.
“What happened?”
He told her. He could’ve called Josh, but he spilled his guts to Flick while he finished off the parmigiana and put it in the oven. The linguine had boiled dry. The meal was going to be late and poorly organized. They ate dinner rolls while it cooked.
“What’s your gut telling you?” she asked.
From his stool at the counter beside her, he watched the timer on the oven. Another ten minutes. “To quit.”
“Why?”
Wasn’t it obvious? “They broke a contract with me.”
“That stuff happens all the time.”
“If I stay, I’m letting them take advantage of me.”
“True. What’s the advantage of quitting?”
Fuck if he knew. The chicken might be done. He’d steamed the broccoli too long. He took the second pot of linguine off the heat. He was starving. Flick’s stomach had rumbled. He got plates out, realized he’d already done that and put them away.
“You’re swearing in your head, aren’t you?”
Fuck yes.
“Tom, I don’t care if you’re furious, cursing, wetting yourself. You don’t have to be anything with me, except here.”
He burned his hand on the baking tray. “Fuck!”
She laughed. She was beside him, his burned hand in hers. “You’ll live.” She took him to the sink and held his hand under cold water. Goddamn stung.
It was orange, the dress she wore. It had a coat that matched. It was draped somewhere now. This dress was fitted against her body, showing her breasts, hips. She’d had shoes on when she came in, heels that made her legs look longer. He’d barely looked at her, but he knew all that.
“This is a work dress?”
“Yes, I wear this to work. That’s where I was.”
“It’s sexy.”
“Why thank you.”
“You wore it because you were seeing him.”
“Who?”
“The aneth—aneth. The doctor.”
