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“Oh?” I haven’t been able to sleep either because the taste of her kisses and pussy haunt me daily.
“I feel bad I turned sour with you after Armstrong made the announcement. I know you wouldn’t do me like that. Especially after the weekend we had.” She turns away when she mentions our time together.
The timer goes off interrupting my thoughts.
“Excuse me for a moment.” I jog to the kitchen to take the dessert I bought out of the oven.
“What did you make?” she asks, approaching the kitchen.
“I really didn’t have time to prepare, but I managed to make roasted chicken with steamed veggies. The dessert is the only thing purchased.”
“So, you cook? Like, for real?”
“Yeah. Remember we were gonna have dinner together Monday, but…”
“Again, I’m sorry.”
“Why don’t you go freshen up and let’s eat. Leave all the bad stuff behind us. Truce?” I hold out my hand in true hatchet-burying fashion.
“Truce.” She takes my hand, and I hold it a little longer than I should.
I stare into her eyes and I know what I was looking for is there. I decide to take a chance and lean in for a kiss. Surprisingly, she doesn’t back away. I start with a soft peck before searching her face for a response. She smiles, and I go in for a longer, deep kiss.
“I’ve never been forgiven like that,” she quips.
“Me either. Now we eat.”
“Okay. Where’s your bathroom?” she inquires.
“Oh, down the hall, first door on the right.”
“Be right back.”
As soon as she’s out of earshot and view, I do a little victory jump. I prayed the evening would go like this, and it has. I serve up our meal and place the plates on the table. The click-clacking of her sandals walking back towards the room, alerts me to her return.
“I’m ready. I kept thinking about the menu while I was washing my hands.” She giggles.
I pull the chair out and urge her to have a seat, then scoot her in.
“Wow, this looks amazing.”
“Thanks. I learned to cook after my mom passed so I could keep part of her memories with me and Dad.”
I look over.and her eyes fill with emotion.
She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”
“Oh, I’m okay. But thanks.” I retract my hand and take a bite of food.
She does the same, and I watch for the first reaction.
“Wow, this is so good,” she mutters through a full mouth.
I know she went to finishing school and has manners, but I love it when she’s just being her. She takes another stab at her food, and I watch in delight seeing her eyes roll for the second time. Come to think of it, I’ve seen that look before.
We complete our meal and talk about her day at the salon with her family over a glass of wine.
“Oh my god. Mom kept going on about her playlist. She has to have ‘this’ song played for ‘this’ moment, and my aunts kept objecting as to why she shouldn’t play said song. It was horrible.”
