"What is 'extra virgin'?"
"You, lover, in the kitchen." She rolled her eyes.
"C'mon! I can cook!"
"If it requires heating in a pan. And if the directions are on the can. Let me do this, ok?"
I muttered under my breath, "I don't want to know what non-virgin olive oil has been up to."
She giggled despite herself, but still put the oil bottle in our basket.
I was just here to make sure the flour didn't have moths, there were no dead mice in the cereal boxes, no roaches under the deli counter, stuff like that. Far as I could see we were good. It was a Vietnamese grocery, a fastidious lot by and large.
In about five minutes I'd make my excuses and retreat to the parking lot. Seeing a bazillion boxes and jars, plus seeing everything in those boxes and jars, gave me a headache sometimes. It was like thousands of jigsaw puzzles all spread out in front of me, too much detail to process.
"Oooh! Oooh! That cereal has a whistle! Can I have it? Please?"
She gave me an indulgent look, added the box to our haul. We always got the best prizes.
After the third time I'd asked about something, the difference between double-cream brie and the regular stuff when they're both made only of cream, why half-and-half was just a few percent fat and not half, why cooking spray is labelled 'non-fat' but contains nothing but fat, she banished me.
Sitting on a bench outside I entertained myself with the content of people's car trunks. So much stuff! So little rhyme or reason.
The Mercedes has a grocery-sack of coupons, mostly expired. The VW bug has a six-pack of wine coolers, a jack but no jack handle, two bikini bottoms but no tops(!). Station wagon - no trunk, but the back filled with camping gear, coolers, hiking equipment. And no can opener.
The rusty surf-mobile with the board on top, a hatchback, had two randy teenagers in the back, grappling on a blanket. Figuring it out; neither was very expert. I trusted youthful determination and lust would win out in the end.
She came out, scanning the receipt. I don't know why, habit probably, we could likely buy this little grocery store for cash.
I took the bags from her, the real purpose of my inclusion in this operation now clear: pack mule. I didn't mind. I've spent a lifetime rambling this coastal resort town, carrying everything I need with me. No car; no job; just a million-dollar condo, bought with my beachcombing money.
And now a girlfriend! We're fated to be a couple, have a whole schoolyard of kids, she wouldn't use condoms. Raise them as combination dutiful-Vietnamese-progeny and super-heroes with x-ray vision.
That's my thing, seeing everything around me, all of it, inside and out. A thing that happened when I was a kid, I've been hiding it for decades but Jillian saw right through me, knew me maybe 20 minutes and had me cold. So now, of course, I loved her, wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, helping her, supporting her family.
We're both essentially orphans. She never knew her dad, her mom died in prison without ever meeting (or caring about) her daughter. Mine died horribly of cancer and alcoholism when I was new to this second-sight stuff, just watching helplessly as a kid, horrified and traumatized by what I could do nothing about.
Her family, and by the associative rule of boyfriend-girlfriend, my family, happened when my tailor Khang decided Jillian was her long-lost soul sister. Which gave me a sister-in-law (or out-law, we weren't married yet) Khang and an Γng NgoαΊ‘i, a Maternal Grandfather, Phuong. I'd known them both as local business people, done trade with them for years, before introducing Jillian. Which triggered a chain of events that has made me the happiest I've ever been in my life.
So being family was new to us; exciting and electrifying and terrifying, all rolled into one. We were taking it one day at a time.
"I'm gonna be hungry as a horse, once we get home. Too hungry to wait for some gourmet meal; we'll need takeout."
"You're always hungry! You can wait."
"Not hungry like this! You sexed me up so thoroughly last night, then again! this morning. Used up every erg of energy I had stored. Drained me. Tank is empty; kaput. I think, Mexican?"
She sighed. "If it gets your motor running again, I guess we can do that, just this once."
She was being the frugal householder, manager of family finances and scrutinizer of purchases. Phuong had given her the Vietnamese-wifely-duty speech, and it hit home. I didn't mind. I'd grown up with very little, and it made me feel good too, being careful.
Except when something interesting came along - like my condo. I'd dropped a third of my wealth, inherited plus accumulated, to have a place to lay my head where nobody bothered me. I slept like a baby, no humans in three directions for a thousand miles, on a point of land on the seashore. Which I shared with a desperate young woman I'd found standing in the surf, ready to give up, betrayed and left with no hope, no money, no self-respect.
We were working on stuff like that, her and me both. Each there for the other, no judgement, no demands. Just putting ourselves out there for the other, not counting the cost or keeping a tally. The only way to respect a partner, really.
"Ok, Cancun Mexican or Yucatan Mexican?"
"What's the difference? Aren't they both tacos and beans?"
"That's Tijuana Mexican, festival food. Cancun is seafood but touristy, resort food for vacationers, pretty awesome. Yucatan is seafood soups, exotic fruits, hot hot hot."
I knew which she'd choose; still a Midwestern Girl in her heat tolerance.
"Cancun, this time? Definitely Yucatan next time."
I felt a surge of affection. She knew I liked it hot, and was telling me she'd make an effort for me, learn to like some heat too. But one step at a time. Which was how we dealt with everything, together.
"So Casa Azul, this side of the strip, back of the surf shop."
We both knew our way around by now, me from half a lifetime living here. Her a more recent immigrant.
I ordered; she was still very much the Midwestern girl, grown up in foster homes eating bologna and wonder bread. She was excited, willing and able to learn all about the wide world of food, but limited experience so far.
Jill already knew more about Vietnamese dishes than me. Khang fed her regularly over at their digs, was a pretty good hot-pot cook, was teaching her. Jillian was to learn barbecue to please Khang, because sisters have to have things to share. It's a rule, apparently.
Back at the condo I put stuff away (where do you put sun-dried tomatoes? In the fridge?) she dished out the takeout. Always insisted on eating off of plates with proper tableware. As a bachelor, I'd eaten mainly over the sink. Didn't mind, this meant I did dishes but also I got to sit with her, chat about food and ingredients and flavors. See her lick her spoon, smack her lips, see her eyes widen when something showed some heat.
The camarones ranchero and deep-fried enchiladas dispatched, I stacked dishes and started hot water in the sink. She chose to sit next to me, watch me. In those too-big shorts, oversized t-shirt. Legs spread a little wider than they needed to be, bent forward almost enough for me to see up her arm-hole to that delicious young-woman breast.
She was talking laundry, something about work clothes. I was perving on her while washing forks. One of my favorite activities, perving on my girlfriend.
Once the last dish was racked and my hands rinsed and dried, she made her move. Scooting forward to balance precariously on the edge of the counter, one foot against the fridge, the other leg improbably folded and braced on the counter, she reached for me.
"C'mere Big Guy."
Her cooch was spectacularly visible through her shorts leg-hole, which was her intention. I went in for the embrace, smiling, nuzzling her on the nose, eyes squinting happily.
"This was a trap! Just getting me fueled up for more... wha!" She'd made a grab down my shorts for my dick, was reeling it out. Stroked me with one hand, the other still on my shoulder, her face a picture of concentration.