Spaghetti Dinner

Spaghetti Dinner/ Second Chance

Jerry arrives at my sliding glass doors unable to reach out and open them because his arms are full of pots, pans and groceries. I rush to let him in. He piles all the stuff on the kitchen table and returns to Jack for more.

I yell after him, "Need any help?"

"No, got it." is his reply

The kids are scattered. Shari is in her room. Chris is watching TV and Rick is playing with friends in the courtyard. None of them really notice that Jerry has arrived. Jerry has expressed that he is anxious about getting to know them. To the kids, at this point in our lives, another man becoming loosely attached to us is just no big deal. As I think that, I judge myself a bit. I shake it off and get back to anticipating a great Italian meal I don't have to cook.

From the looks of the pile on the table, Jerry has thought of everything. There is good sour dough bread and three bottles of wine. I think at least one of them is for cooking. I'm most excited about what looks to be the makings for a great salad. In my experience, salads in the southwest tend to be gargantuan with all kinds of stuff in them that does not belong in a salad. Or they are bland head lettuce, tomato, maybe some shredded carrot with way too much Ranch dressing.

I've already started on a bottle of wine so the count for the evening is 4. He removes his black leather jacket as he closes the door and exposes a long sleeve black Harley logo'd thermal under the infamous denim vest. His hair is full and curly. It looks soft and freshly washed as he runs his hands through it and bends down to kiss me hello. When his hair looks like this it is obvious that his "Harpo" handle stems from the hair. Most of the time he has it plastered down with a bandana. His smile is intoxicating and again he is moving around the kitchen with that little boy excitement I've come to know and love.

"Where are the kids?" he asks.

"They're around. They'll be very around soon enough. Let them be for now." I respond.

I get another wine glass out of the cupboard. I have an eclectic collection. I've chosen two of my favorites. They are hand thrown pottery. I got them at an art in the park event in Dallas some years ago. He makes an approving face as he raises his.

It looks like he brought everything but I ask, "do you need anything?"

He organizes a bit and then he pats on the counter to indicate I should sit up there for a bird's eye perch. I move toward him and he lifts me up onto the counter. I have to really control myself. Being lifted sends lots of self image issues soaring through my brain and body. I would usually insist on doing it myself with some sort of self defacing comment like, "I don't want you to hurt yourself." But I don't say anything. He doesn't even groan, or breath into the lift as many men in my life have done indicating I'm a bit heavy.

I point to the bong and stash on the table. Letting him know I want it beside me on the counter. My bong is also a handmade clay piece. It fits beautifully in ones hand. I bought it at a head shop in Santa Cruz. It is curvy and deep green. My ex thought it was just a funky piece of sculpture. It sat unrecognized on the fireplace mantle of our house in Plano for several years. Harpo remarks about its feel as he takes and holds a couple of hits in his lungs. When he finishes he hands it to me and leans in for another kiss. I oblige by wrapping my arms around his neck and leaning into the kiss. As I hit the bong, he moves to the oven and begins the sauce.

It is getting dark. The kids come in one at a time to see what's up, expressing their hunger. I reintroduce each of them to Jerry.

Chris asks, "What's for dinner?"

Rick laments that he didn't come on Monster

Shari, turns her eyes down a bit, being shy or coy and just says, "Hi."

Jerry makes a couple of attempts at making a connection with them but they avoid actually connecting.

I explain, "Takes time. They're kids. Nothing personal, I promise. They'll react favorably to having spaghetti."

Jerry brags that they've never had his spaghetti. That goes over less well than he might have liked. Like all kids, they prefer what they are used to. Thank goodness mine are both polite, so would never offend him. Also, they are pretty open to new flavors.

The bread is sliced and prepped with butter, garlic, and parmesan. Once the sauce is simmering nicely, Harpo joins me. He wiggles himself in between my legs. He takes another hit off the bong and leans on me and the counter. The conversation flows easily. I offer to prepare the salad. He agrees, lifting me down. When the salad is ready, he slips the spaghetti into the pot of water boiling on the stove. He grates a big bowl of parmesan and puts the bread into the preheated oven. Together we set the table. I retrieve the dishes from the cupboard and he places them on the table. There are only three kitchen chairs because the table is pushed up against the wall on one side. I usually eat standing at the counter when the kids are all three eating at the table. He sets three places for the kids at the table and sets places for he and I on the coffee table in the living room.

He calls the kids to dinner by stepping down the hall and saying loudly, "Come and get it."

I'm impressed. The spaghetti is yummy beyond words. The kids lick their plates clean and come for more. I want to but I don't want to appear piggish. The kids come into the living room as they finish their dinner. He notices they each clear their places first. We all chat for a while. Then I announce it is bath and bedtime. They go without grumbling.

I insist on cleaning up, since he cooked. He helps. The wine and conversation make the clean up go by effortlessly. The kids come in to say good night and get me to come do tuck in duties. While I'm gone, he finds and turns on some music, pours some more wine, puts a fire in the fire place and sits down on the floor. He has moved the coffee table to the side so he can stretch his long legs out in front of him. His back is leaning against the couch. He is staring at the fire and sipping his wine. The bong is handy.

I lay down on the couch with my head propped up on the arm of the couch just above him so I can see the fire. Neither of us says anything for a very long time. He reaches up behind him, looking forward and feeling for me. He finds my arms and pulls me forward, so my hair falls in front of his face. He giggles a bit and plays, blowing on it. Then he turns and pulls me down until my head is resting on his lap. He strokes my hair and the evening takes a very amorous turn.

Before we get naked, I excuse myself to hit the head and check to be sure the kids are asleep. He follows suit and then takes off his jeans. His vest has been hanging on a kitchen chair for awhile. His boots have been on the floor at the end of the couch. I join him and we commence a long, tender love making session there in front of the fire. There is a little complaining about the potential for carpet burn and so we move onto my California and pick up where we left off.

At some point late into the night, he excuses himself, "I'll get the pots and pans later."

He has to be on the job early, so he doesn't think he should spend the night. I beg a little. He laughs and teases me, dresses and leaves. I don't even see him to the door. I want to stay in the warm space his body has left me.