of bacon out of the freezer and stuck it in the microwave to defrost. Found the English muffins and the butter. "How about cherry jam?" I asked. My cupboards tend to look like Old Mother Hubbard's, but knowing the way to Andre's heart is through his stomach, I'd shopped on Friday.
"Fine, dear." He peeked at me over the top of the paper. We were the very model of domestic bliss.
There's nothing I like better than a big breakfast, especially on Sunday. The first few meals we'd had together he'd cooked, including our first breakfast. He's a good cook because he likes to eat and lives alone. We both like to eat. If we didn't work so hard, and consequently often skip meals, and if we didn't pump iron, or, in my case, try to get to aerobics faithfully, we'd both be fat as hogs. We're both good-sized peopleâI'm 5' 11" and he's a bit over 6'âand if we were fat as well, we could really take up some space.
I spread the bacon in a shallow pan and stuck it in the oven. Beat the eggs and turned on the heat under the omelet pan. Stuck four muffin halves into the toaster, and chopped some onions. There was a honeydew melon on the counter. I sliced it open and sniffed it. Sweet, musky and ripe. "I'm getting close to blastoff point in here, can you set the table?" I called.
He came into the kitchen, but instead of getting things for the table, he grabbed me from behind. "Seven... six... five... four three... two... one." He picked me up and swung me around. "We have liftoff!"
"At ease, trooper," I said. "Put me down." He set me back on my feet, his hands lingering briefly, and gathered what he needed to set the table. I melted some butter, poured in the eggs, and buttered the muffins. I stuck four more in the toaster, checked the bacon, and loosened the edges of the omelet. I stuck two melon quarters in bowls and shoved them across the counter. "These on the table. And the jam." I dumped some caviar and onions into the center of the eggs, folded in the sides, and moved the pan to a cool burner, forked the bacon onto some paper towels to drain, and stuck three muffins onto each plate. Then I cut the omelet in half, put half on each plate, and spooned some sour cream on top. "Ready."
The table was set with flowered placemats and he'd stuck my cyclamen in the middle. The slider was open, and the fresh sea breeze was billowing the curtains toward us like ghosts. He noticed me watching them blow. "Just like your nightgown, last night," he said.
"I don't understand how you can be so romantic, doing what you do," I said.
"I have to be. How else could I stand it? My mind and body may belong to the state, but my soul belongs to me."
"Thought I had dibs on the body."
He grinned wickedly. "You're the perfect antidote to crime. You give me wit, warmth, and caringâ¦." He broke off abruptly and looked down at his plate. There was more he wanted to say, but he wasn't saying it. "Not bad."
"You haven't tasted it yet." He looked a thousand times better than he had on Friday night. His skin had color again, and without bags under his eyes, he no longer looked like a weary bloodhound.
"No, but to have one's wishes fulfilled, instantly like this, is enough. It doesn't matter how it tastes."
"To quote Suzanne, 'get real, mister,' I didn't make this food for show. Speaking of Suzanne, are you coming down for the dinner on Friday night or not until Saturday morning?"
He took a bite of omelet and stared at me, puzzled.
"Don't tell me it tastes bad."
He shook his head. "No. It's great. I just didn't understand what you meant about Friday, Saturday and Suzanne."
"The wedding."
"Wedding?" He sounded blank, as though the word wasn't in his vocabulary.
"Wedding. You know. Brides and grooms. White dresses and penguin suits. Pretty girls in flowery dresses. The organ plays dum dum de dum. The minister gets up and says, 'dearly beloved...' Is it coming to you now?"
He still looked puzzled, and a little annoyed. "I know what a wedding is,
"Fine, dear." He peeked at me over the top of the paper. We were the very model of domestic bliss.
There's nothing I like better than a big breakfast, especially on Sunday. The first few meals we'd had together he'd cooked, including our first breakfast. He's a good cook because he likes to eat and lives alone. We both like to eat. If we didn't work so hard, and consequently often skip meals, and if we didn't pump iron, or, in my case, try to get to aerobics faithfully, we'd both be fat as hogs. We're both good-sized peopleâI'm 5' 11" and he's a bit over 6'âand if we were fat as well, we could really take up some space.
I spread the bacon in a shallow pan and stuck it in the oven. Beat the eggs and turned on the heat under the omelet pan. Stuck four muffin halves into the toaster, and chopped some onions. There was a honeydew melon on the counter. I sliced it open and sniffed it. Sweet, musky and ripe. "I'm getting close to blastoff point in here, can you set the table?" I called.
He came into the kitchen, but instead of getting things for the table, he grabbed me from behind. "Seven... six... five... four three... two... one." He picked me up and swung me around. "We have liftoff!"
"At ease, trooper," I said. "Put me down." He set me back on my feet, his hands lingering briefly, and gathered what he needed to set the table. I melted some butter, poured in the eggs, and buttered the muffins. I stuck four more in the toaster, checked the bacon, and loosened the edges of the omelet. I stuck two melon quarters in bowls and shoved them across the counter. "These on the table. And the jam." I dumped some caviar and onions into the center of the eggs, folded in the sides, and moved the pan to a cool burner, forked the bacon onto some paper towels to drain, and stuck three muffins onto each plate. Then I cut the omelet in half, put half on each plate, and spooned some sour cream on top. "Ready."
The table was set with flowered placemats and he'd stuck my cyclamen in the middle. The slider was open, and the fresh sea breeze was billowing the curtains toward us like ghosts. He noticed me watching them blow. "Just like your nightgown, last night," he said.
"I don't understand how you can be so romantic, doing what you do," I said.
"I have to be. How else could I stand it? My mind and body may belong to the state, but my soul belongs to me."
"Thought I had dibs on the body."
He grinned wickedly. "You're the perfect antidote to crime. You give me wit, warmth, and caringâ¦." He broke off abruptly and looked down at his plate. There was more he wanted to say, but he wasn't saying it. "Not bad."
"You haven't tasted it yet." He looked a thousand times better than he had on Friday night. His skin had color again, and without bags under his eyes, he no longer looked like a weary bloodhound.
"No, but to have one's wishes fulfilled, instantly like this, is enough. It doesn't matter how it tastes."
"To quote Suzanne, 'get real, mister,' I didn't make this food for show. Speaking of Suzanne, are you coming down for the dinner on Friday night or not until Saturday morning?"
He took a bite of omelet and stared at me, puzzled.
"Don't tell me it tastes bad."
He shook his head. "No. It's great. I just didn't understand what you meant about Friday, Saturday and Suzanne."
"The wedding."
"Wedding?" He sounded blank, as though the word wasn't in his vocabulary.
"Wedding. You know. Brides and grooms. White dresses and penguin suits. Pretty girls in flowery dresses. The organ plays dum dum de dum. The minister gets up and says, 'dearly beloved...' Is it coming to you now?"
He still looked puzzled, and a little annoyed. "I know what a wedding is,
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