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Better than the bar scene? Easily. |
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Troubled by the other guy in the picture, I broke our date Saturday night. Told her I wasn't feeling well. She had offered to come by to play nurse. But I wasn't up for it. So I stayed home and brooded by myself instead. Sunday morning, too. Just lay around on the couch. Watching football. Listening to my stomach complain because I hadn't gone down to the corner cafe for breakfast. But as the morning game ended, I heard a car pull up outside.
I got up and looked out the blinds. Her Honda was parked at the curb and she-in a little spaghetti-strap top over white jeans-was already approaching with a covered pot held between both hands with a dishtowel. I turned off the TV and opened the front door.
"You're not contagious, are you?" she asked.
I shook my head and pushed open the screen door.
"Good." She stepped inside. She was tall and slender with high cheekbones and innocent, doe-like eyes. A model's face and figure. Definitely, a head-turner. "I made you some homemade, chicken soup."
"Really?" She had never cooked for me before. I followed her into the kitchen. She put the pot on the stove, turned on a low flame, and approached me.
"I missed you last night." She put her long arms around my neck and smiled her purposely crooked, little smile. She wasn't wearing a bra.
I wanted to kiss her. Badly. But had promised myself to play it cool, not get too hung up on her. She wanted it that way. So fine.
She leaned her pelvis against mine. It was hard not to respond. The corners of my mouth rose uncontrollably.
"You hungry?" she asked.
I nodded. "Famished."
"Good." She kissed my lips lightly and went to the drawer for a ladle.
I sat at the kitchen table. As she reached up into the cupboard for a bowl, her shapely breast threatened to pop out of her top. Maybe we could work this out, I thought? Rearrange our arrangement. Make it monogamous. Why not?
But when she removed the top from the pot, stirred up its contents, and ladled out a steamy bowlful, an aroma-like dirty sweat socks-wafted across the room.
I suddenly knew. She wasn't The One. Not for me. Because dalliances aside, there was no way in hell I could spend the rest of my life pretending to like this woman's cooking.
It was as simple as chicken soup…
Until she rubbed her leg against mine under the table and again flashed that crooked, little smile of hers. I sipped another spoonful. What the hell? There were lots of good restaurants in the area. And I could always order take-out.
After tonight, let the other guy eat her cooking.
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