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The mail has the address of one Romano at the top. No first name, just that. Then the subject;the Urgent need for a chef at the Romano residence.
…Mano and Romano, sounds quite similar.I brush off the thought. I quickly write back, stating that I'm very much available for an interview and hit send while Paul keeps yelling happily behind me.
After such a long time, I feel genuine happiness in my heart, but it’s too weak to express it. I let Paul do all the jumpy acts. A smile creeps to my cheeks as Paul kisses me over and over again.
"Come on, let's do a little bit of stalking. See what this residence is all about, shall we? They must fucking have a lot of cash and shit to be sending emails all over the place." "Paul, it's perfectly fine to do that." I slap his hands away when he tries to maneuver the keyboard from behind me.
"Oh, you'll never know. It looks very classy and shit. What day is the interview set?" He asks.
"Oh, I skipped that." I click on the mail again and check for the date. "It says…" I squint.
The screen is too bright for me. "The 13th. This month, June."
"Perfect. I'm getting my salary soon, Smith. I'll buy you a proper dress, and you'll cook a 5-star meal or two for us and the cat. We'llmake sure you still got the skills. Fuck, I doubt I can even make a proper sandwich after such a long time. Think you still got it in you?"
"I think I do?" I laugh.
"Ah, that saves me some cash then, but I am getting you that dress."
"Thank you for everything, Paul." I say this not because I am trying to be polite, but because never in my wildest dreams didI imagine that Paul would become a companion.
He turns my head to face him and kisses me softly on the lips.
The type of kiss Mike would offer every day.
The cat crawls out of the bed, dancing around the room in search of a meal. Its white fur is covered in webs from going too far under the bed. She stretches and yawns and looks up at her owner.
"Lazy bitch." Paul picks her up and places her on his bare shoulder.
I want to protest because she is obviously dirty, but he winks at me, and I smile, letting it all justbe.
I have circled through the stages of grief. I hope I am done with it now because once again my life will resume a normal routine.
I finally have the chance to become the Emily Smithson that works as a chef, has a roof over her head, and everything she needs to last her for a lifetime.
Carl
From childhood, I have always been fascinated by cats, even though I have never bothered to get one.
From where I am seated, I can see the ocicat caught in a dilemma; it is tempted to leave the door with its owner. The cat strikes one foot into the sun, then shrinks back, like it has been stung by the rays. It will disappear into the small building again, only to materialize a few seconds later with two feet out the door. All the while, the owner of this creature is lost in a conversation with a slender woman with wide hips.
I only notice this feature before taking in her general appearance because she is wearing a lemon sheath dress with buttons accentuating her curves. I drag my eyes away from the cat and allow myself the pleasure of taking in her face.
I have seen it several times, but every time it hits differently.
Her deep blonde hair, which I remember to be ginger colored in the past, is cut short and tousled in a rush of waves, side-swept with the volume bouncing just below her chin. I wish she would have kept it longer; I appreciate the ease that comes with holding on to a woman's hair while she bends on all fours, displayed to me.
When the man lifts his hands to tuck a strand in place, my hands tighten around the wheel.
She is mine.
The voice is in my head, but in the comfort of my BMW, no words are uttered from my lips. She blushes. I can't see the rosy hues on her face from where I watch, but it's obvious in her demeanor that his keen attention is leaving her flustered. Her hands—those slim delicate fingers—porcelain skin that cries to be revived of their glow—are fiddling with the strap of her purse. She speaks for the first time since I have been watching, and I find myself leaning closer to the glass.
I want to hear her speak again. The very voice that has drawn me to her in the first place.
That breathy sound; shaky, enigmatic—like an exhausted sigh rather than actual words.
The man responds, and she laughs, but the laughter is mechanical.
