Don't Look Down

eighteen: don't let the bitch win

I walk into the apartment with my purse strung over my arm and my laptop against my chest. Seth's hovering over a large pot on the stove and our apartment smells like a combination of an Italian grandmother's kitchen and a pastry shop. It's divine. It's also one in the afternoon and too early to eat dinner. My tummy growls in opposition.

I set my purse and laptop onto the kitchen island. "A little early to start dinner, don't you think?"

"Hasn't anyone ever told you the best things in life take time?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you vomit clichés?"

He turns around and chuckles, the gash on his upper lip rising with the movement. It's settled to a dull pink, but I'm sure it'll end up a scar just like his knuckles. I figure he has a lot of those. But all wounds take time to heal and they do so more efficiently without being poked and prodded. It's why I'm being patient with him, letting him open up to me about his past when he's ready.

With a wave of his good hand, he orders, "Get your perky little ass over here. I need a fresh mouth to taste this."

I walk over. He raises the wooden spoon to my mouth and I sink my lips onto it, pulling the red sauce to taste it with my tongue. He watches me intently, his breathing uneven-small, hot bursts I shouldn't find satisfying but shamefully still do.

Realizing what I'm doing, I swallow, diverting my eyes. "It tastes great."

"Really? It doesn't need more salt?"

"How would I know? The meals I eat come from cardboard boxes and plastic trays."

"Valid point." He reaches to grab the salt shaker and dashes salt into the pot. "It needs to simmer for five hours, but it's worth the wait. Trust me."

I do. He's yet to disappoint in the kitchen and I doubt he's about to start. With my job as taster fulfilled, I step to the fridge and grab my necessary afternoon snack. As I close the door and raise the string cheese to my mouth, I ask, "I take it you have off today?"

"Yep. It's just you, me and..."

My eyes land on the ballet pink envelope addressed to Ms. Ellie West in elegant script resting on the island. The return address is one I'm all too familiar with and it has the blood draining from my face. The cheese I just swallowed trails down my throat like a lump of clay.

I lift the envelope into the air so Seth can see it. "Where did this come from?"

"Where most of our mail comes from-the mailbox." He turns back around to stir his sauce. "Difficult concept, I know."

"No. I meant when did it come?"

"This morning?" The rise in his pitch at the end makes it a question instead of a statement as he spins back around, brows knit. "Is this a trick question?"