“You um, you’re single, yeah?” she asks, her cheeks looking a little flush. The fire is roaring, and the wine is flowing; she’s finally feeling comfortable. “That’s how you know how to cook so well, right?” She adds that last part while my mouth is too full to talk like she had to qualify the question so I wouldn’t think she was asking for personal reasons.
I nod. “Yup. And I cooked a lot growin’ up.”
She smiles, but it’s one of those sad smiles women do when they want you to know they like what you’re saying, but they’re somehow relating your shit to their shit. But with Goldie, that doesn’t seem to bother me. Instead, I find myself wanting to know her shit.
“You?” I ask though I don’t know if I’m asking if she cooks now or did as a kid, but something tells me Goldie ain’t the kind of woman to make a long story short.
She tucks her now fully dried flyaways behind her ear. She shoves the sweatshirt sleeve up her arm with one hand and repeats on the other. “Well, my Mom never cooked because she doesn’t like eating, so I made a lot of my own food myself, and while it sounds like because I made a lot of stuff growing up, I should know how to cook, you’d be wrong. Because see, I had to make my own food like all the time, but no one taught me how to make food. So I can make eggs, grilled cheese, spaghetti, and a sandwich; that’s about it.” She takes another drink of wine and then taps her chin. Her fingernails are painted red, and I start thinkin’ about what those red nails would look like dragging down my bare back. “And I can make anything that comes out of a can, you know, like chili and soup.”
“That’s reheating, not making,” I clarify as I scoop the last bite of peppers and sausage from my plate. I notice her taking her last bite, too. “You want more?” I ask, nodding to the plate.
She presses a hand to her stomach and puffs out her cheeks. “No, no, my pants are tight as it is.”
“If you’re hungry, you eat. And if you’re worried about those pants not fitting, you can wear mine.” I ain’tnormallya fuckin’ wink guy; I will tell you that much. I have regrettably cat-called women, I have let women write their numbers on my hand, and I’ve even used some corny ass one-liners in the past too. But I’ve never ever been the sleazebag who fires off winks like it’s innuendo.
But I wink at Goldie. No smile or grin, just a singular wink. “But then I’d be walking around in my drawers, and you don’t want that.”
“Drawers?” she laughs, pressing her partially covered palm to her face. I love that she’s wearing my hoodie, yet I’ve already had that thought a few times. “Okay,grandpa.”
Pushing my plate to the center of the table, I lean back, the tiny chair starting to make me sore. “Grandpa,” I repeat drily. “How old areyou, Goldie?”
“You aren’t supposed to ask a woman her age,” she says, her plump pink lips curling into a devious little grin. Fuck, she isn’t hot. Hot is fleeting, hot is a look, hot is a moment.
She’s quite possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“You can guess, though,” she says with a playful wink.
“Thirty-seven,” I say automatically because I know Beck’s age. I’ve been hearing all about Beck for the lasthowever manymonths. I know for sure she is thirty-seven. And I know they’re besties. So it’s a guess, but as smart of a guess as I can make.
Her jaw falls open. “Do I look thirty-seven?”
I shake my head. “I ain’t fallin’ into that trap. You told me to guess how old you are, not how old you look.”
She closes her mouth, and my fingers itch to swipe over those lips and see if they feel as soft as they look. “I’m thirty-seven.”
I shrug. “I figured. Beck is, too.”
She wags a finger at me as her face softens with relief. “You knew! Well, thank god, because I thought you guessed thirty-seven because I look it.”
She doesn't look it, but I don’t like that she has some idea that it’s bad to look it. “What’s wrong with lookin’ thirty-seven?”
She reaches for the second bottle of wine since we’ve somehow managed to finish the first. Holding it by the neck, she raises it to me. I nod. We talk while she opens and pours.
“There isn’t anything wrong with looking thirty-seven; it’s just… I guess…” she trails off as the red liquidglugglugglugsfrom the bottle.
“Be real,” I say because I can see there is a struggle to own her truth. Again, I don’t think Goldie wants to be dishonest. More like I get a vibe from her that says she’s scared to be real.
“I don’t want to be old. I’m not where I want to be, and if I get old before I have the things I want, I’m a failure.” And then she slams a full fuckin’ glass of wine, and when she lowers it to the table, I see her stop the tremble rolling through her bottom lip. Fuck, that was honest. That was real; I can see how hard it was for her too. I should say some encouraging shit likethere don’t you feel betteror I don’t know. Everything that encourages the realness sounds fuckin’ corny and condescending. Instead, I take a drink of my wine before saying, “where do you want to be?”
She sighs, running her red fingernails through her hair, tucking flyaways into her bun. She catches me watching her, and as the first bottle of wine is setting in she giggles. “How did we get flyaways just sitting here?” She laughs again as she stands, stretching across the table to smooth her fingertips over my scalp. With a plunk, she falls back into her seat. “Better.”
“Thanks, I guess,” I say flatly, trying to shake off the flare of heat in my groin from those red nails in my hair.
“Well, I want to be in the job that I want. No,” she says, thinking aloud as she swirls red wine around in the forty-year-old drinking glass. “No, I want to be in the career that I want. And I thought that was PR, but now…” she trails off with a shrug. Her eyes don’t come back to mine, and that’s how I know her job meant a lot to her. Her career meant a lot to her. “I’m not so sure.”
“What else?” I vaguely remember Goldie sayin’ she didn’t want kids, so I’m interested to hear her life plan. It’s okay that she doesn’t–I ain’t the type who’s gotta breed a woman to be with her forever. But I do like a woman with a plan.
Why am I actin’ like any of it matters? Goody two-shoes Goldie is renting an apartment and is in the middle of what Beck calls a pre-mid-life crisis. Not to mention I’m the grandpa greasy boogeyman in her story. What I think of her life’s wants means nothing.