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“Come, let’s get dinner started,” I say, my voice betraying me with a hint of an Italian accent all of a sudden. I blame it on the smells coming from the fresh pasta sauce simmering on the stove top, reminding me of how much I loved to cook for my family back in happier times.
This is the first time I have cooked for anyone since being in Boston, and I have missed it. Like any good Italian, I love food and I love to cook. I especially love to cook for large groups and my family were the perfect guinea pigs for me. I am quite the connoisseur in the kitchen now having had years preparing dishes and learning skills from the various chefs we had working in our homes over the years.
However, most of my knowledge comes from Sofia, who I spent many hours in the kitchen with, watching, taste-testing and learning all the traditional methods and recipes that I now know by heart. There is not one cookbook in my place; everything is stored in my mind.
I grab Marco’s hand and lead him into the kitchen. I put the flowers down on the small kitchen bench, and gesture for him to sit at the small breakfast bar as I pour us both a glass of wine, then push a glass toward him. I grab a tall jug from the cupboard for the flowers and display them nicely before moving them to sit at the center of my dining table.
“There. Perfect.”
“Perfect,” Marco says, looking straight at me. I smile at his compliment and make my way back over to him.
I put on my apron and get to work on cooking the fresh pasta.
“It all smells amazing, can I help?” Marco asks, coming up behind me to sneak a look over my shoulder at what’s cooking on the stove. It feels intimate, like he has always been here in my home, in my little kitchen, in my life. I’m comfortable and at ease in his presence. He rubs his hands up and down my arms, and I turn, lifting the spoon from the sauce pan for him to taste. He leans down, taking a small sample and licks his lips. “Mmmm, that is so good.”
“Good, now go and sit down. I enjoy cooking and haven’t cooked for anyone for a long time, so shoo,” I say as I playfully shove his chest, just like Sofia used to say to me when I was little and in her kitchen.
Marco laughs a big belly laugh, the sound making me smile even bigger. He makes his way to the other side of the bench and sits on a stool, watching me as I work around the kitchen; chopping basil, grating parmesan, and pulling our meal together as best I can with my hand still bandaged. I am looking forward to Alf removing the stitches tomorrow, it is getting very itchy.
We make small talk as I work. He tells me a little about his work and what he does. He thankfully questions me mostly about cooking and other lighter topics as we each find out more about the other. If his questions get too personal, I avoid them by saying the bare minimum and deflect the questions back onto him; the fact that I’m busy cooking makes it much easier to do without seeming too dubious.
We sit for dinner, both starving as we dig into the beautiful pasta dish.
“This tastes even more amazing than it smells!” Marco says as he begins to dig into the pasta in front of him.
“It is a pretty simple dish, really, not much to it. My godmother taught me everything I know.”
“I have to say, I am not much of a cook, but I love my Mom’s cooking. I think this pasta beats hers, though. I will be dreaming of this meal for weeks.”
“So you’re a Mommy’s boy then?” I say with a teasing grin, waiting for him to bite.
He shakes his head laughing, but doesn’t actually answer the question. I let out a loud laugh as well at his reaction, knowing that he is totally a mommy’s boy and hoping like hell she is nothing like mine.
Our friendly banter continues throughout dinner, and I am happily surprised that our conversation hasn’t ceased. It’s effortless. There are no awkward pauses, and we laugh and make fun of each other in a way that makes it feel like we’ve had much more than just a few interactions. We actually get along really well. As we sit together at the dining table, Marco relays the latest escapades of Prince, who took off on him again this morning on their run and bowled over an old lady out walking with her Chihuahua. I briefly wonder if it was the same lady who scowled at me in the park last weekend.
After we eat, he helps me clear the table and together we wash the dishes; him, washing because I can’t get my stitches wet, and me, simply tidying the remainder of the mess. Our conversation is a mix of light banter and getting to know you questions, and I am dying to meet the rest of his family who all sound like amazing people. I have always been attracted to big families, a by-product of growing up in one I guess.
“So, Italian, huh?” Marco asks as we take a seat on the sofa in my sitting room. Our bodies are touching and he lifts his arm, putting it around my back just above my shoulders on the sofa, opening his body up to me.
I can smell his scent and feel his warmth. He is all woodsy and masculine; I want to curl up in his lap where I know I would feel protected and safe. But Marco can’t protect me from my world, so I resist the urge and keep a little space between us.
“Yep,” I respond, popping the p. I make no attempt to add anything more to my answer, taking a sip of my wine instead to ensure I say nothing more.
He looks at me inquisitively. “You like to cook?” he asks again.
“I love to cook. I grew up cooking, looking after the meals for my family and enjoying being in the kitchen both in New York and in Sicily and using the local produce…” I stop when I realize I have said too much.
He looks at me, confused as to why I stopped so abruptly and as if to jot my memory of what I was talking about he asks, “Have you spent a lot of time in Sicily?”
“No,” I say quickly and take another gulp of my wine, then ask him another question about his family to move the topic back to him.
But he doesn’t answer straight away. He leans toward me, his blue eyes staring right into mine as he whispers, “It’s okay, beautiful, I got you.” He then sits back and continues talking about himself and his world, not asking me again about mine.
9
Marco
The list of reasons why I like Frankie are continuing to grow, and I know that I am in trouble. I already think about her constantly and her lips, fuck, they are so juicy and perfect. I just want to kiss her endlessly.
