There she was, standing in the kitchen attempting to formulate in her mind exactly what the cookbook was saying, process its intended meaning, and then execute it in her head.
She always did this with anything she had difficulty grasping, and the culinary arts were certainly one of those very things that eluded her understanding.
Often she would joke that she was an accident waiting to happen in the kitchen and on the very few -- and intensely brief -- excursions she had inside the kitchen she proved to be just that.
He still loved her, though, yet he often chided her that should she attempt anything that was more involved than the microwave she might be testing the limits of that love.
Gladly, she would reply to him, as she trumped off to find the handy list of telephone numbers to various restaraunts they ordered delivery or take-out from.
Not today, she thought to herself.
No, tonight was far too special to her, and she planned to surprise him in ways he could not possibly predict.
He was so very good at that. Predicting her behavior. It infuriated her, how he would say things she was thinking or tell her how she felt with that smug look on his face.
Arrogant.
Cocky.
Full of himself.
Yet that was part of the allure, this she knew, as she had always gravitated toward those with the confidence she lacked in herself.
It wasn't that she had little to be confident about, she most certainly did, at least that was what everyone around her would always tell her.
She never really believed it.
They're just being nice to me, she thought.
The phone rang, startling her briefly, and freeing her from those evil thoughts of noodles and ricotta cheese.
Where was the portable, she wondered, as the shrill tone alerting her of the incoming call echoed throughout her apartment. She held her place in the book with one of her long slender fingers, and wrapped the rest around the edge as she tossed pillows on the sofa aside, unearthing the handheld device.
It was him.
Why couldn't he call her cell phone, which was resting in her pocket. She knew why before she even finished wondering the question. He was well aware of how messy her apartment was and liked to make her fetch things that he knew would either be lost or difficult to find -- such as her driver's license, car keys, and telephone.
She clicked it, and as soon as she heard his deep tumbling voice all thoughts of his misbehaving had vanished from her mind.
"You missed me."
He always did that.
It was his way of saying hello, and she'd gotten almost used to it, as if anyone could really get used to him.
"Almost as much as you did me," she replied with the coy self-assertion she clung to around him. She had noticed that over the years they had known each other she had gotten more and more confident in herself, at least when it came to interacting with each other.
He had once said to her that if she spent enough time with him she'd learn to come back as strongly at him as he came at her, because he would never let up on teasing her.
He never let up.
She learned.
"So what is the most beautiful woman alive doing right now," he inquired in his ever flirtatious way.
She plopped down on the sofa, and laid the book down beside her, picked up the remote and began flipping through channels as images on the television sprung to life.
"I don't know, why don't you go ask her?"
She laughed.
"How many times have we had this exchange now?" he openly wondered.
She didn't really know, "Too many times love, so what are you doing up so early? Don't vampires hate the sunlight? It's not even two in the afternoon."
Now, that question, that one she was confident in knowing the answer. Today marked their one year anniversary, and he had not once brought it up nor let on that he was even cognizant of its impending arrival before now.
And he would not stray from that path, it seemed.
"Oh, no reason, just woke up early. You know how my sleeping habits are. It's tough working nights. Figured I might get up, and head on over. See what you're up to."
He could not help but smile ever wide at the thoughts that must be racing through her head right now.
And as he often is, he was right about that. She nearly panicked, but she kept the image of herself in a plain white bra and shorts on the sofa with pillows tossed about, magazines falling off her coffee table with last night's teacup sitting on top of one, her clothes from yesterday strewn about the area and his gifts sitting unpacked in plain view while in the kitchen all of the spoils of his surprise dinner littered the counter.
Not to mention she looked and felt like a wreck, her hair needed to be washed, and she had no makeup on.
Before she mouthed the words, "You can't,"he interjected and saved her.
"Actually, sweetheart, I think I'm going to go hang out with the guys at their place and play some video games with them. If you get bored just give me a call, I may crash over there. That cool?"he asked her flately.
She wasn't sure if he was playing a game with her or not at this point, but she was willing to call his bluff. Oh, how he loved to be right and taunt you with it. Well, she wasn't going to be caught falling for his little game of cat and mouse.
"Sure, sweetie, don't let those sunrays burn you too much, Vlad." she said teasingly and hung up the phone.
There she sat, frozen on the sofa, wondering what he was up to and if what she had gotten for him was worth it. She wanted very much to expose him to that which he wasn't accustomed to, and he seemed so begrudgingly opposed to other cultures. He was so American in every sense of the word.
Ethnocentric or egocentric, it didn't really matter to her, he was a good one, unlike most any of the boys she met in her formative years, who were more concerned with how cool they appeared than how cool they really were.
She loved his substance over style mentality, and she only hoped he would find the various trinkets she found as exciting as she thought of them. In a way, this sort of cultural theme and his reaction to it would make or break the night for her, because she was sharing a part of herself with him.
There was little he did not know of her, there still remained some darkened corners of her soul, and though she still fought her emotions daily, they sometimes got the best of her. It was difficult not to feel so alone, and he was there for so much, though he couldn't be the way they both wanted.
Though at times that aspect went unspoken as well.
The couple had already been through quite a bit to this point, considering the fact when they met they might as well have been oceans apart. They could not be together due to circumstance, though it was obvious how enamored he was with her, and she was taken by his smug smile and cocky demeanor from word one.
And he always commented on her eyes and her smile. How delicious she looked, while she felt all too pale and awkward. She was either too tale or too pasty or too short or too this or too that, he would say, and yet when he looked into her eyes and kissed her, she felt beautiful. Often he would comment on how lovely she was to him, and when he said it and was there, she wanted to wrap herself in those words and live in them forever, but when he was gone, well, insecurities would creep back in.
So there she sat, alone in her apartment, staring at his gifts and thinking of their first kiss and how she cried as he took her hand in his and when he pressed his lips to her own she was all but a mess.
Always there to ruin the perfect moment, she had said to him, but his reply only further strengthened her feelings for him.
"The only perfect moments are when you are here."
She felt bad upon recollection, which is no real surprise, because her cynical outlook took hold again. It was a constant fear of her's that things would not last. They would fall apart.
He would tire of her.
He would leave.
He would grow bored.
Find someone else.
He always told her that he would last forever, but how long is that?
Brushing aside those thoughts, she retrieved her recipe book, placed each pillow back properly in its resting place, and made her way to the bedroom with her dirty clothes filling her hands. She dumped them in an ever expanding pile at the foot of her bed, and returned to the kitchen.
The water!
She had forgotten it.
Scrambling to the burners, she grabbed the handle of the pot and pulled it off of the fire. The water had completely evaporated and the bottom of the pot was colored black and she ran it under cold water as steam erupted in the sink. She moved it off to the side and frowned.
Well, at least she hadn't burned any food.
Yet.
