love.” Dell touched his knuckle to her cheek. “Time will work.”
She made a miserable face but snuggled in closer to him.
Well, yes, it was always timing, wasn’t it?
Everything in life comes down to timing. Stopping at a yellow light instead of accelerating sometimes makes the difference between life and death.
Problem is, you never know whether you’re better off stopping or blasting through. Maybe I should have stopped a long time ago.
And, for just a minute, I really did feel like maybe I’d waited too long, focused too much on my career, and had inadvertently let something important slip away.
Chapter 7
Ah … Mr. Tuesday’s apartment.
Its cool darkness was a welcome relief after walking in from an unseasonably hot October afternoon. It always felt like leather and soap and masculinity in there, probably less because of the furniture than because of whatever the cleaning lady used. Still, it was a distinctly dignified, manly feel that I loved.
I went to the kitchen area and turned on the overhead lights, bringing the room to life in filmworthy hues and textures. The black granite countertops gleamed, the brushed stainless steel appliances seemed to glow, the hardwood floors shone without a nick or scratch. Inside the fridge was sparkling clean, with a line of Sam Adams beers, the usual condiments on the door, milk, eggs, bacon, yogurt, fruit, and a jar of Wickles Pickles, coincidentally my favorite.
Either he was the tidiest man on earth or his cleaning lady also came on Tuesdays, because the place looked like a showroom every time I came in. I’m pretty sure it was the latter, though I can’t say why I had that impression about someone I’d never met. Maybe it was the way the notes he left for me each week always seemed rushed and written in a messy scrawl.
Today’s was no exception.
G—
Thanks for the roast chicken. It was awesome, as usual. But maybe next time you don’t need to put in quite as much garlic.
I smelled like a buzzard all week.
—P
I smiled and shook my head. He didn’t want me to put so much garlic in the chicken that calls for forty cloves of garlic? Would thirty-nine have been better?
I don’t trust people who don’t like garlic.
Of course, he always seemed to have a little something to say about everything I left for him. They weren’t really complaints, exactly, just comments. I suspected he might have been goosing me sometimes, just to get a rise out of me. I mean, the buzzard thing was kind of funny, though arguably obnoxious.
Slightly disgruntled, I took out the four frozen meals I’d prepared for him over the weekend and put them in the freezer, clipping the instruction sheet I’d typed to a magnet on the side of the fridge.
Then I took out the ingredients I’d brought for tonight’s hot meat loaf dinner and laid everything on the counter.
Look, I know everyone thinks their meat loaf is the best, but mine really is. For one thing, I use all beef—no veal, no pork. Why add complication or moral questionability if you don’t have to? I make a ketchup and molasses glaze that is to die for, and I don’t wrap it in bacon, because as great as bacon is for just about every reason, I don’t love it withered and stringy around a filet mignon or draped like a limp dick over a meat loaf.
If your meat loaf depends on it, then forgive me. I’m sure it’s excellent.
Mine’s just better.
I heated some butter in a large Dutch oven on the stove and took out an onion and celery and my handy chef’s knife and started to dice. Unlike the lively voices at the Olekseis’ on Wednesdays, or the usually tense undertones of argument at the Van Houghtens’, and even the constant din of traffic outside the thin walls of my own condo, the entire place was completely silent except for the quiet, rhythmic chopping and the subtle crisp yielding of the onion to the blade.
It was interrupted by my ringing phone. I set down the knife, wiped my hands on my apron, and
She made a miserable face but snuggled in closer to him.
Well, yes, it was always timing, wasn’t it?
Everything in life comes down to timing. Stopping at a yellow light instead of accelerating sometimes makes the difference between life and death.
Problem is, you never know whether you’re better off stopping or blasting through. Maybe I should have stopped a long time ago.
And, for just a minute, I really did feel like maybe I’d waited too long, focused too much on my career, and had inadvertently let something important slip away.
Chapter 7
Ah … Mr. Tuesday’s apartment.
Its cool darkness was a welcome relief after walking in from an unseasonably hot October afternoon. It always felt like leather and soap and masculinity in there, probably less because of the furniture than because of whatever the cleaning lady used. Still, it was a distinctly dignified, manly feel that I loved.
I went to the kitchen area and turned on the overhead lights, bringing the room to life in filmworthy hues and textures. The black granite countertops gleamed, the brushed stainless steel appliances seemed to glow, the hardwood floors shone without a nick or scratch. Inside the fridge was sparkling clean, with a line of Sam Adams beers, the usual condiments on the door, milk, eggs, bacon, yogurt, fruit, and a jar of Wickles Pickles, coincidentally my favorite.
Either he was the tidiest man on earth or his cleaning lady also came on Tuesdays, because the place looked like a showroom every time I came in. I’m pretty sure it was the latter, though I can’t say why I had that impression about someone I’d never met. Maybe it was the way the notes he left for me each week always seemed rushed and written in a messy scrawl.
Today’s was no exception.
G—
Thanks for the roast chicken. It was awesome, as usual. But maybe next time you don’t need to put in quite as much garlic.
I smelled like a buzzard all week.
—P
I smiled and shook my head. He didn’t want me to put so much garlic in the chicken that calls for forty cloves of garlic? Would thirty-nine have been better?
I don’t trust people who don’t like garlic.
Of course, he always seemed to have a little something to say about everything I left for him. They weren’t really complaints, exactly, just comments. I suspected he might have been goosing me sometimes, just to get a rise out of me. I mean, the buzzard thing was kind of funny, though arguably obnoxious.
Slightly disgruntled, I took out the four frozen meals I’d prepared for him over the weekend and put them in the freezer, clipping the instruction sheet I’d typed to a magnet on the side of the fridge.
Then I took out the ingredients I’d brought for tonight’s hot meat loaf dinner and laid everything on the counter.
Look, I know everyone thinks their meat loaf is the best, but mine really is. For one thing, I use all beef—no veal, no pork. Why add complication or moral questionability if you don’t have to? I make a ketchup and molasses glaze that is to die for, and I don’t wrap it in bacon, because as great as bacon is for just about every reason, I don’t love it withered and stringy around a filet mignon or draped like a limp dick over a meat loaf.
If your meat loaf depends on it, then forgive me. I’m sure it’s excellent.
Mine’s just better.
I heated some butter in a large Dutch oven on the stove and took out an onion and celery and my handy chef’s knife and started to dice. Unlike the lively voices at the Olekseis’ on Wednesdays, or the usually tense undertones of argument at the Van Houghtens’, and even the constant din of traffic outside the thin walls of my own condo, the entire place was completely silent except for the quiet, rhythmic chopping and the subtle crisp yielding of the onion to the blade.
It was interrupted by my ringing phone. I set down the knife, wiped my hands on my apron, and
Similar Books
