Don't Bet On It by J. L. Salter

an instant, then relieved.
    I was quite surprised that the über-confident jogger man, with his calculated wagers and elaborate bribes, could be such a helpless goof near a stovetop. It was also quite touching that he was trying so hard to impress me. I tasted one of the pasta pieces, scanned the directions on the pouch, and set a different heat level on the burner. “Have you got a cover for this skillet?”
    â€œProbably… somewhere.” He pointed toward a low cabinet adjacent the stove.
    I had to bend way over to scrutinize the bottom cupboard’s dark contents. “Here’s one that ought to work.” When I held it up and looked over my shoulder, I saw he was assessing my legs and hindquarters… and he didn’t bother turning away. I let him look.
    After covering the skillet, I checked the stove’s clock and asked what else I could help with.
    Brett had already put the wrapped meat back in his freezer and was evidently struggling with a decision on the opened can of Sloppy Joe mix.
    As a teacher, I have a third eye which can detect cheats, fibs, and other insincerity, and I focused that scrutiny on Brett. It was important to discern whether he was playacting in any way whatsoever, or if he really was that ungrounded while entertaining a date in his home. His cool, calculated cockiness outside the electronics store and inside the pizza and barbecue places was in dramatic contrast to the man I finally met during our final few minutes at the Italian place… who was now struggling in his kitchen with skillets, cans, and pouches.
    My expert analysis: he was genuine. With more facets that I had imagined possible in the calculating Mr. Wager, Brett currently manifested a persona which somewhat resembled a gawky teenager trying to impress his pretty date. It gratified me to play that role in his awkwardness. It certainly made him a lot more human… and considerably warmer.
    I retested the pasta, stirred a bit, and recovered it. “About ninety-eight more seconds, I’d guess.”
    My number evidently went over his head as he scowled at the pouch before tossing it into the trash. “False advertising.”
    In an upper cabinet, I found a plastic container with a secure lid and poured the Sloppy Joe mix inside. “This should be good for several days in the fridge.”
    He took the container rather absent-mindedly. “Uh, by the way, I didn’t get a chance to tell you coming in… but you look nice tonight. Real nice.”
    â€œWell, thank you.” I kissed his cheek and pointed to the fridge.
    â€œOh… right.” He’d already forgotten about refrigerating the food.
    Within fifteen minutes we were eating the salvaged meal. The pasta turned out okay and the shrimp was fine — though the green veggie fragments were not worth mentioning. Overall, an enjoyable meal, despite Brett ’s initial fractiousness. All he offered to drink was bottled beer or fruit juice, so I chose brew to accompany our shrimp.
    After Brett saw things were working out after all, he also relaxed. The main course completed, we sat on a two-seater wooden swing at the back end of his side porch and watched dozens of martins swooping about for their dinners.
    â€œYou feel like watching a movie?” He pointed inside, so I knew he meant a DVD.
    Figuring he’d own mainly action flicks, I declined. “It’s so peaceful out here. I’d rather watch the last few moments of daylight.” Indeed, there weren’t many minutes left, as it was already past eight and in early May it would be dark quickly.
    â€œWell, scooch over a bit closer, so we don’t get a chill.” Brett smiled as he reached out a long, firm arm and hugged me into his side. Our swing barely moved.
    That was a lot better than watching a shoot-em-up DVD with chase scenes and car crashes. I think I even started purring.
    After a long silence and without any prompt, he said