He thinks about it for a minute, then says, “Cheesy grits with crispy bacon and a perfectly poached egg. Shave a little fresh parmesan over top.” Mimicking the movement of sprinkling parm over a plate, he continues. “More than good. Almost perfection,” and as he’s saying it, my mouth waters.
“You’re a foodie?”
A full smile takes over his face. Dammit, the man is beautiful. There is some kind of heartbreak warfare attached to those lips. And my fucking panties are currently singed to my skin. A new-age chastity belt that won’t unlock until this man smiles directly into my crotch, ready to devour it like the food he’s describing.
“A bit. I’ve always loved to eat.” I laugh, because I’m immature like that, and my mind’s currently in the gutter. But he continues, “I had to find new things to fill my time over the last few months. I figured out that I can cook pretty well. Love it, in fact. Almost as much as I love to eat.”
“I bet you do,” I say. “Profession or obsession?”
“Maybe just a way to work out aggression,” he says, taking a sip of his drink and piquing my curiosity.
“There are lots of creative ways to do that. But I like the idea of doing it with food.” I smirk. “If you cook, then I’m in. There’s not much I don’t like. I’ve never had grits before. Just no bacon.” I smile wide as I pour two beers from the tap for my remaining two customers a few seats down.
“Tasting it is far better than words.” The funk he was in is now forgotten, and all of a sudden, heat flashes across my cheeks. “Wait, why no bacon?”
“Vegetarian.” I point to myself.
“I knew there had to be something.” He lifts his hand up as if he’s surrendering. “I’m not going to dive into the magic you’re missing out on.” He’s shaking his head at me, teasing me about his disdain for my lack of meat-eating.
I shrug my shoulders. The smile he pulled out of me just a few minutes ago is still going strong. “My pops says to me all the time”—I tweak my voice to make it lower and give it the proper Italian accent—“You are-a Toscana. Oh, Madonna. We are meat-eaters.” I pull my fingertips together, raising my hand in the air and rocking at the wrist.
He laughs at my impersonation of my father. “Sounds like he knows what he’s talking about,” he says.
“I don’t have a big reason, really. I just don’t love it. And I read that you can live a longer life if you remove animals from your diet. So I went for it.”
“A longer life, but I don’t know about a happier one. Bacon and burgers, oh! And smoked duck. It’s practically a religion in my family. I cook it best, and there isn’t a Sunday dinner without something grilled, smoked, or fried.”
“You can do any one of those things to vegetables.”
The last couple of customers close out their tabs. Two regulars who’ve been in a few times over the past handful of years that I’ve helped my cousin out here. “Tell your old man he still owes me a game of horseshoes at the next block party.”
I smile wide. “Larry,youtalk to him about horseshoes and bocce rematches. I'll stay out of it.”
He laughs at me. “Have a good night, kiddo.” He taps the bar and walks out, giving my sexy stranger a once-over as he goes.
I pull out two shot glasses and a bottle of chilled limoncello from the cooler; there’s no label since it’s my cousin's batch. Pouring two shots, I push one in front of my sexy stranger. I raise mine up.
“What’s this? It looks radioactive.”
“Limoncello. And a little thank you for walking into my bar tonight.”
“I should be the one thanking you. Best decision I’ve made in a long time.” His eyes lock onto mine as he raises his glass and says, “To a long life.”
“A una bella vita.”To a beautiful life.
2
Henry
“One eye is green,and the other is half green and half blue. I’ve never seen that before.” She smiles as she leans on the bar, closer to me. “Beautiful,” she whispers.
I’m thinking the same thing, but for an entirely different reason. This woman is cute and sexy, and I don’t mind her staring. Mesmerized by an imperfection. The imperfection that has forced my life into an entirely different orbit. It’s the first time in months that my eyes haven’t been the source of my anger and complete frustration. She’s the kind of person whose singled-out, focused attention feels like an achievement. A feeling I didn’t know existed until right now. Talking to her, feeling her eyes wander around and discover parts of me, it’s quickly becoming more than a desire, maybe even a weakness.
I didn’t see her when I came into the bar. I was too lost in my own thoughts to notice a pretty girl, never mind a beautiful woman. Listening to her talk with everyone from the douchey drunks to her waitstaff, I couldn’t stop paying attention.
“Tell me your name,” I demand as I drain the last sip from my Cognac.
Ignoring me, she smiles and says, “Tell me what you’re thinking. You have a very insistent look in your beautiful eyes that is making me think it’s something either really good or gorgeously naughty.”