"No cheese. Right, Carol?" Ivan calls into the yard. The thin, fragrant smoke from the grill before him caresses his face on its way up and beyond.
"That's right! You remembered," Carol replies with a thoughtful smile before turning back to her group conversation.
"Of course, kiddo. I gotchu."
With care, Ivan places a homemade beef patty onto the hot grill. It's buoyant, bouncy; he ground the chuck himself. The meat sizzles excitedly as it makes contact with the hot steel. And as the fat begins to render and drip onto the coals, the flames flicker and lengthen, reaching up to lick at the edges of the fresh meat, desperate for a taste.
He sprinkles the burger with salt, then redirects his attention.
"Rick!" Ivan calls out. "You're up, bud."
Rick saunters over to the barbecue from the edge of the backyard, passing me on his way, his Ray-Ban's hiding his admittedly stunning green eyes. Ivan points to the stack of rainbow coloured paper plates on a nearby picnic table. Rick grabs a purple one and approaches Ivan.
"Matches my shirt," he says, holding out his plate. His slim-cut lilac button-up is left decidedly unbuttoned at the top.
"Such a fashion icon, you are," Ivan replies with a slight smile. His red and white patterned casual shirt is effortless and unfussy. It fits loosely, except around his broad shoulders--too much real-estate to cover.
Ivan takes the two halves of a toasted sesame bun from the grill and places them on Rick's plate. The buns are soft, plump, warmed-through, and just starting to brown on the insides. Despite the strength of Ivan's large hands, the buns are gently handled, coming to rest without fear of being squashed or abused. The delightful scent of warm bread wafts from them like a languorous sigh.
I feel warm.
"How goes the job today?" asks Rick, eyeing the chrome barbecue.
"So good, bud," he replies calmly, genuinely. "Always a pleasure."
With his spatula, Ivan scoops up a burger patty and lays it carefully onto Rick's bottom bun. It glistens brightly in the afternoon sun, cooked to, undoubtedly, a perfect medium.
"She's a beauty, Ivan."
"Condiments are over there," he replies with his characteristic subtle smile, pointing again at the picnic table.
"Tell me you have corn relish. You gotta have corn relish," Rick says, stepping over and dressing his burger.
Ivan smirks as he drapes a wide square of cheddar cheese onto another patty like he's tucking it in for the night.
"We'll talk later about that portfolio," Rick calls back before he re-engages the crowd.
Stroking his trim, greying beard, Ivan nods, admiring the way the corners of the cheese fold down over the edge of the meat in a luscious, tender hug.
Sitting in my Adirondak chair under the partial shade of a maple tree, the cool grass tickles my bare feet as I comb my toes through it. The small sensations build like static electricity until finally, to release the sensory tension, I rub my arches together.
"Sarah, babe, are you enjoying the sun? What are you doing here just smiling to yourself? You look great, by the way," a woman says as she takes a seat next to me.
It's Rashida. We work together at the salon. She likes to comment on all my ensembles--today's includes a bright blue and yellow diamond-patterned dress, large black sunglasses, and a floppy straw sun hat over my blonde ponytail. She's also good at finding out which of her clients aren't quite straight and loves to invent stories about them. Occasionally, they fuck.
"Well, anyway, I'll be over with the gals whenever you're done lounging here. Oh, and Carol is lovely by the way. It's so interesting to finally meet some of your family."
Rashida takes a sip of her seltzer through a straw.
"Such a delight!" she concludes with a wink and bounces back to the girls further into the yard.
Ivan is now standing at the picnic table near the grill, neatly rearranging small dishes of fresh toppings and condiments. As he completes his meticulous work, his rolled sleeves reveal the long muscles in his forearms that dance underneath his dark body hair. He wipes the top of a ketchup bottle, returns the serving forks for pickles and tomatoes to their appropriate place, and sets upright a toppled saltshaker. With a thick cloth, he wipes away any debris from the tablecloth in long, smooth strokes, then finally straightens a stack of napkins. Satisfied, he folds his cloth, brushes his hands on his classic red apron, and returns to his post.
