I glanced at my watch. It was 4.30 pm. I sighed. Half an hour left, I thought. I continued to stare at the black watch neatly wrapped around my wrist. I tapped my foot impatiently as I looked up and watched as the crowds cheered. It was a rugby game. He pleaded for me to watch the game ever since he first got into the team. I felt bad, and went to the stadium to watch even though I still had three sketches to do and a model to complete. I imagined my project supervisor’s face when he found out I procrastinated on my project again. I got distracted when the referee blew the whistle and the crowd gave a standing ovation. “Did you see that boy? He scored the goal effortlessly. I heard he’s the new kid,” said the old woman next to me. I was surprised to find out someone like her would be in a place like this. “Which one?” I asked. “Player number 7, darling,” she answered. That was him.
He insisted on driving even though he kept complaining about his legs. “I feel like I’m standing on a huge jelly,” he said. “Then let me drive,” I said, and snatched the keys from his hands. I should have got used to his antics by now, but I still haven’t. He finds joy in driving me mad. We’ve been friends since junior high school and went to the same university together. He rented the apartment next to mine, so we always carpooled everywhere we go. “You’re such a slow driver. Hey, give me back the keys!” he exclaimed, and tried to snatch back the keys from me. “I’m chauffeuring the best rugby player of all time. I’ve got to think about his safety for the sake of his team,” I said sarcastically. He stuck out his tongue and gave up on getting the keys back. “Good boy,” I said and went inside the car.
“I’m making dinner tonight,” he said. I was not sure I heard him right and raised my eyebrows. “Pardon?” I asked and unlocked my front door. “I’m making dinner tonight,” he said again, just slightly louder. “Stop pulling my leg,” I snorted. He had never mentioned about his culinary abilities. “I’m not kidding. I’m going to use your kitchen and whip up some stuff,” he said. “Why my kitchen?” I asked, stressing on the ‘my’. “Because I have nothing my kitchen besides some canned tuna spread and white bread,” he said and gave me the puppy eyes. He knew my weakness. “Then just make yourself a sandwich,” I said and tried to close the door on him. “Never,” he said and put his feet through the door. “… try to close the door on me, sweetheart.”
I had to let him use my kitchen because there’s no way of getting him out when he’s inside. I took a quick shower, slipped into something more comfortable and dabbled on my project. “Dinner’s ready, children!” he exclaimed as he puts a huge pot on the dining table. “What did you make?” I asked and took a peek inside the pot. “Chicken carbonara…. My specialty,” he answered and went back inside the kitchen. I helped to get the plates and cutlery and took my seat. “So, are you going to assure me that this tastes delicious or not?” I asked jokingly and scooped some of the pasta into our plates. “Hey, I’m a good cook, y’know?” he said and tried to feed me a spoonful of his cooking.
He watched me as I munched on the pasta. I was flabbergasted. “How was it, mademoiselle?” he asked in his French accent, after a while. I chortled. “It’s trés heavenly! You should’ve told me earlier, man… You’re good,” I said. I peppered him with a few more compliments on his cooking and chatted about all sorts of things as we eat. This was the first time I had dinner with him at home. This was the first time I tasted his cooking… And today was also the first time he dared to call me sweetheart.
After we finished eating, we went to the balcony to chat as we contemplated the night view of the city. “I know this is late but congratulations on the goal. The old lady next to me loved you,” I said teasingly. He laughed and continued to stare outside. “Thanks,” he finally said after a while. I continued to tease him about his old admirers and crushes and exchanged a dozen more jokes. Suddenly, a question struck me. “Why do you just love making me angry?” I asked, out of curiosity.
“It’s because I love you, sweetheart,” he answered nonchalantly.
