"Thanks," I whisper back. "I appreciate your confidence in me."
"Also," he says sheepishly, "can he come by later and fix our bathroom sink?"
I snort, but consider it. Watching Seth slide under the sink, his hands gripping the countertop above him, ab muscles rippling with the effort, would be a delight. Everyone has their kink. I get off on watching Seth repair things.
* * *
Work runslate on Saturday night, and it's almost two in the morning by the time I get home. I try not to wake Seth up, but I desperately need a shower. At the end of a long night of catering, I smell like sweat, cooked food and booze.
After drying my hair and getting into my pajamas, I tiptoe into the bedroom. Despite my efforts to be silent, Seth hears me as I climb into bed, and he slips an arm around me. He pulls me against his warm chest, and I experience another first: falling asleep in someone's arms.
Seth and I agree on Sunday morning that the best way to use our time before he leaves for the airport is to relax in my apartment. In other words, we will spend most of the day in bed, with breaks for food and water. We'll go sightseeing next time he's in town.
Around one o'clock, Seth makes us a pile of french toast, the only thing he can whip up with the ingredients in my kitchen. I pretend not to notice that we only have a little more than an hour left together before he calls a car to take him to the airport. Time seems to be moving at double speed today. Every time I look at the clock, I think it can't possibly be that late.
Seth is only wearing shorts, and I'm in my underwear and the Metallica shirt, which he knows he isn't getting back. There's no point in pretending I'm a normal person who doesn't steal his stuff. That train has left the station.
"Do you have apple sauce?" he asks, rifling through my cupboards.
"Why? Do you put that in french toast?"
Seth pauses in his search and looks at me like I'm insane. "No, you put it on top of french toast."
I look at him quizzically. "Who does that?"
"My mom did.” He pulls an unopened bottle of syrup off the shelf. "But it looks like this will have to do."
The syrup belongs to Marly, like the eggs he just used, but I'll replace it all later today. Between what I eat at work and the meals I eat out with Hugh and my other friends, I cook at home even less than I did when I was teaching.
I set out forks and napkins for us on the place mats I've put down on the table. I dug the place mats out of my closet yesterday to be classy like Renata. This week I'm going to buy myself a set of cloth napkins so I can really feel like a grown-up.
"Was your mom a good cook?" I ask.
The butter hisses as Seth slides it into the pan and expertly coats the surface by tilting his wrist from side to side. Then he places the battered bread on top of it.
"She made simple things, comfort food. All the stuff kids like to eat: french toast, grilled cheese, chicken and dumplings."
"What was she like?"
Seth watches the toast cooking for a few seconds before he answers. I imagine that he wants to get this answer just right. It's probably an impossible task, summing up the essence of someone who was that important to you.
"She was a strong person. Very opinionated, but also openminded, if that makes sense. She was honest, almost brutally so when it came to me. She didn't let me get away with anything."
He flips each slice of toast, carefully tucking them into the only frying pan I own, which is pathetically small and warped on the bottom.
"Is it okay, me asking questions about her?"
"Yeah, of course, " he says. "She was my favorite person in the world so I love talking about her. I wish you could have met her. She would have loved you."
I squeeze past him in the tiny kitchen so I can get us glasses of water. It's tempting to kiss his neck, but I know we'd end up having sex here against the counter, and the toast would burn in the pan. And if we have any more sex without eating first, I'm pretty sure I'll slip into unconsciousness.
A minute later, he shuts off the gas burner and announces that our food is ready. I bring the water glasses to the table and sit down to wait for him, trying to record this moment like all the others we've shared over the last few days. I'm building a repository of Seth memories that will sustain me for months. They have to.
"This is my specialty," he says, sliding two pieces of golden brown toast onto my plate.
I cut both slices of bread with my fork, salivating at the delicious smell.
"That's what guys usually say when they can only cook one thing well."
