getting better at it, and about volunteering at the hospital. Also about Antonio. “He’s eighty years old and eighty years smart.”
“So then I have nothing to worry about,” he says, a smile in his voice.
If he only knew.
I wake closer to lunch than breakfast. The sweet, buttery scent of baking wafts through the air. More Norman Rockwell than my home-sweet-home, but whatever. On the kitchen stove there’s a black iron cupcake tin filled with golden popovers with swelled heads like swollen muffin tops. Would Aunt Ellie have baked them even if I wasn’t here? I decide she would. She does things like that. Baking bread and cakes, making homemade jam, even making pickles out of cucumbers which I didn’t think you could do on your own. For her it’s probably fun because she doesn’t have to do it. No one comes home pissed off expecting dinner on the table.
“They’re not hot anymore,” Aunt Ellie says. She watches me stumble to the table. “You must have been tired.”
I devour three popovers with strawberry jam and drink a glass of milk, studying the carton of organic low-fat milk. It’s dark green and plum with little cows in a field like a Ben & Jerry’s tableau. About as real as Legoland.
The kitchen is bright with sun. I notice for the first time that the green painted chairs around the table match the yellow-green grass outside. I also notice a slant to the floor. It’s an old house, maybe that’s why. Outside, the seagulls soar above the beach. They sound excited to be alive and have the entire sky to themselves, like ice skaters on an empty rink.
Everything is right about this new day. It feels like a new season, a fresh beginning. I look at the clock. He’s been on duty for three hours. Is he thinking about me? Remembering? I can’t get him out of my head. The feel of my arms around his waist. His warm skin against mine. His sweet smell. His nearness. I’m drunk with him and I don’t want to get sober.
Even through my thick web of sleep, I saw his face. He was watching me. Dreams last only minutes, they say, but this lingered through the night, fading in and out as if we stayed together, entwined, stepping outside one universe and entering another where only we existed.
I wash my dishes, lost in thought. I find myself standing at the sink, staring at the bottle of green dishwashing liquid as if it’s some odd find. I forget what I was planning to do next as if my mind and my body have separated inexplicably. Then I remember the shower. Slowly, I make my way upstairs.
Only now I don’t use the white Dove soap in the bathroom. I go to my makeup bag and get the soap Marissa gave me last Christmas. It was in a glittery sack with makeup from Sephora. On the pink wrapper, gold letters spell: Intoxication .
“For SPECIAL occasions only!” she wrote on the gift tag. She surrounded the note with red hearts from a glittery pen. I tear open the paper and sniff the sweet, musky perfume. When I come out of the bathroom, Will is sitting on my bed. He lifts his head and gets to his feet, ambling over to sniff my skin, detecting something new and curious, something he needs to take note of.
I put on shorts and a T-shirt and bike into town. Before I go the beach, I want to make a stop. The sun is warm on my face as I make my way along the main street. I steal a glance at myself in store windows—casual looks, so no one knows I’m checking myself out.
I look leaner now than when I first got here and my arms are stronger, even though they’ll never be sculpted the way his are, each muscle so distinct he could pose for an anatomy chart, the kind they put up in the gym. My hair is full and the layers are longer and it’s blonder from the sun. It cooperated today. It feathers around my face instead of poking out everywhere. I stand straight, not slumping, my mom’s words echoing in my head: “Stand tall, head high, shoulders back.”
I’m in the zone. I can handle shopping for a new bikini; never
“So then I have nothing to worry about,” he says, a smile in his voice.
If he only knew.
I wake closer to lunch than breakfast. The sweet, buttery scent of baking wafts through the air. More Norman Rockwell than my home-sweet-home, but whatever. On the kitchen stove there’s a black iron cupcake tin filled with golden popovers with swelled heads like swollen muffin tops. Would Aunt Ellie have baked them even if I wasn’t here? I decide she would. She does things like that. Baking bread and cakes, making homemade jam, even making pickles out of cucumbers which I didn’t think you could do on your own. For her it’s probably fun because she doesn’t have to do it. No one comes home pissed off expecting dinner on the table.
“They’re not hot anymore,” Aunt Ellie says. She watches me stumble to the table. “You must have been tired.”
I devour three popovers with strawberry jam and drink a glass of milk, studying the carton of organic low-fat milk. It’s dark green and plum with little cows in a field like a Ben & Jerry’s tableau. About as real as Legoland.
The kitchen is bright with sun. I notice for the first time that the green painted chairs around the table match the yellow-green grass outside. I also notice a slant to the floor. It’s an old house, maybe that’s why. Outside, the seagulls soar above the beach. They sound excited to be alive and have the entire sky to themselves, like ice skaters on an empty rink.
Everything is right about this new day. It feels like a new season, a fresh beginning. I look at the clock. He’s been on duty for three hours. Is he thinking about me? Remembering? I can’t get him out of my head. The feel of my arms around his waist. His warm skin against mine. His sweet smell. His nearness. I’m drunk with him and I don’t want to get sober.
Even through my thick web of sleep, I saw his face. He was watching me. Dreams last only minutes, they say, but this lingered through the night, fading in and out as if we stayed together, entwined, stepping outside one universe and entering another where only we existed.
I wash my dishes, lost in thought. I find myself standing at the sink, staring at the bottle of green dishwashing liquid as if it’s some odd find. I forget what I was planning to do next as if my mind and my body have separated inexplicably. Then I remember the shower. Slowly, I make my way upstairs.
Only now I don’t use the white Dove soap in the bathroom. I go to my makeup bag and get the soap Marissa gave me last Christmas. It was in a glittery sack with makeup from Sephora. On the pink wrapper, gold letters spell: Intoxication .
“For SPECIAL occasions only!” she wrote on the gift tag. She surrounded the note with red hearts from a glittery pen. I tear open the paper and sniff the sweet, musky perfume. When I come out of the bathroom, Will is sitting on my bed. He lifts his head and gets to his feet, ambling over to sniff my skin, detecting something new and curious, something he needs to take note of.
I put on shorts and a T-shirt and bike into town. Before I go the beach, I want to make a stop. The sun is warm on my face as I make my way along the main street. I steal a glance at myself in store windows—casual looks, so no one knows I’m checking myself out.
I look leaner now than when I first got here and my arms are stronger, even though they’ll never be sculpted the way his are, each muscle so distinct he could pose for an anatomy chart, the kind they put up in the gym. My hair is full and the layers are longer and it’s blonder from the sun. It cooperated today. It feathers around my face instead of poking out everywhere. I stand straight, not slumping, my mom’s words echoing in my head: “Stand tall, head high, shoulders back.”
I’m in the zone. I can handle shopping for a new bikini; never
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