Page 83 of Kissing is the Easy Part
We’re still at the lake house on Sunday. The two of us are lost at the end of the world, content with the isolation.
“What do you want for lunch?” I ask.
Flora sighs, as if eating is hard labor. “I’m not that hungry. Maybe check the fridge to see if there’s anything edible.”
There are rows of bottled mineral water inside, a block of cheese, and not much else. Like the one in her apartment, the kitchen is gleaming white and fully equipped with stainless steel appliances. The marble countertop is shiny and spotless, and sitting on top, there’s an assortment of high-end gadgets, including a rice cooker and three different types of toasters.
“My dad would kill for a kitchen like this. How often do you guys come here?”
“Every two or three months, I think. Jeremy stops by occasionally. We don’t really use the kitchen, but we have stuff just in case. My parents want me to feel comfortable when I have friends over.”
It must be cool never having to worry about things like scholarships and scraping by for a trip. But despite having everything handed to her, Flora remains so kind and genuine. Her parents must know what they’re doing to trust her like this. I sift through the shelves, finding a pack of pasta and a can of tomato paste wedged between a bottle of soy sauce and a half-used jar of chili crisp. “Want to have pasta?”
“You can cook?”
“Not really, but let’s find a recipe online. Shouldn’t be harder than a chemistry experiment, right? There’s more room for error.” And I feel bad that no one uses this nice kitchen.
As I put a pot of water on to boil, Flora leans against the island in a silk robe, the fabric clinging to her in a way that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. I add the spaghetti to the pot as the water comes to life with bubbles. The package says it takes seven minutes. On another stove, I heat up the tomato sauce. She makes an exaggerated sound of appreciation when she tastes it.
She hops onto the counter, crossing her legs. I drop the wooden spoon, and she wraps her legs around my waist, tugging me closer. I cup her face and kiss her.
The timer goes off.Right. The noodles.
“I should turn off the stove,” I murmur, not really caring.
She responds by kissing me harder.
The noodles are getting limper by the second while I . . . well, I’m not. If we keep this up, we’ll never eat. I pry myself away, and she heads to the living room to lounge in front of the TV. When I bring out two plates of spaghetti, she digs in.
Dropping her fork, she nods as she chews. “Sogood.”
I take a bite. It’s completely overdone.
“We need some good wine with it,” she says.
“To be honest, good wine is a waste on me.”
“You need to awaken your senses! Let me enlighten you.” She heads back to the kitchen. There’s the sound of a cork popping, the clinking of glass against the counter, and the faint sound of liquid sloshing before she returns. “I have two glasses. One of them is from a bottle of Chianti, and the other is cheap supermarket wine Josie left behind.”
Only Flora would spring a wine tasting on me out of nowhere. What I wouldn’t give to have a can of Pepsi right now.
“Close your eyes. Okay, the first one.” She lets me smell first, then the cold glass presses to my lips. I take a sip.
“Do you like it?”
It tastes like . . .wine. “Yup.”
She feeds me again. “How about this one? Which one do you prefer?”
There’s no difference, so I take a random guess and open my eyes. “The first one.”
She sets down the glass with a sigh. “Sean, it’s the same glass.”
“That’s unfair. It was a trick question!”
“I love you so much, I couldn’t bear to give you cheap wine.”
I smile. “I don’t care. Cheap wine suits me fine.”
