She’s got a cantaloupe on a cutting board, and she’s holding it with two hands, contemplating.
“No, you just got lucky,” I tell her, opening the paper on the package. “Eli found some new artisanal butcher who he’s in love with, and he got so excited that he got us all packages of bacon so we could, quote, ‘see what it’s supposed to taste like,’ end quote. Except Levi, he got nothing.”
She looks at me, cocks an eyebrow.
“Vegetarian,” I explain.
“Not even tofu bacon?”
“He’d know it was a consolation prize.”
“It’s still a prize.”
I flick water onto the cast iron pan, and it sizzles.
“Is it?” I ask, and drape a slice of bacon across it. Delilah just laughs.
“I’ve never actually had it,” she admits.
We’re standing in my kitchen the next morning, both still wearing pajamas from the night before. Delilah’s hair is wound on top of her head, a takeout chopstick stabbed through it, and she’s got a huge mug of Earl Grey next to her on the counter.
I never realized she was a morning tea drinker. It surprised me. Somehow I always figured that tattoos and caffeine overload went together, but there’s no good reason for that.
I’ve got coffee. Strong. Black. Good.
“Are you supposed to cut cantaloupe lengthwise or… otherwise?” she asks, a knife in one hand. “Does it matter?”
“Lengthwise, usually,” I say, and plop the last piece of bacon that’ll fit in the pan.
I drink my coffee, watch the bacon, talk to Delilah about how to cut cantaloupe. It’s normal, boring, the same thing that millions of couples around the country are probably doing right now.
But I like it. I really, really like it. I liked waking up next to her this morning. I liked that she snuggled into me for a few minutes before we got up. I liked the sound of her going down the stairs, turning on the kettle, yawning in the kitchen.
“You doing anything today?” I ask as she scoops seeds into the trash.
“Depends on the roads,” she says. “You don’t have a compost bin or something?”
“I live in a townhouse.”
“It’s got a back yard.”
It’s true. My townhouse has a perfectly nice, postage-stamp-sized back yard, complete with a deck and a few small trees. That said, I haven’t spent a moment of my life gardening since I moved out of my mom’s house.
“I think the roads are clearing up,” I say, poking at the bacon with the tongs.
She looks over her shoulder, through the kitchen window, the light catching her right across the cheekbone.
“I might work on the storage unit,” she says. “It’s pretty close to finished, and at this point I just want to get it done, you know?”
She puts the two halves of the cantaloupe on the cutting board. I grab paper towels, stack a few on a plate, take the dripping bacon out of the pan.
“Come to my mom’s for dinner tonight,” I say.
“Tonight?” she echoes, looking up at me in surprise.
“Yeah,” I say, and drape more bacon onto the pan. “It’s our usual Sunday thing, everyone will be there. You haven’t come yet. You should.”
“It’s not — ow! Shit.”
Her knife clatters to the countertop. I look up in alarm.
“You okay?”
“You have sharp knives,” she says, voice muffled by the thumb in her mouth. “Shit, that hurt.”
I’ve already put the bacon down, and I’m scrubbing my hands of raw meat, drying them, grabbing her a paper towel.
“Here,” I say. “Can I see?”
Delilah makes a face, then holds it up to me. Instantly, blood wells from the slice right across the pad of her thumb. I press the paper towel to her thumb, and she takes it from me, holding it tight.
“So, besides alphabetizing your silverware, I guess you sharpen your knives regularly?” she says, still making a face.
“Eli was over on Wednesday to talk about numbers and next steps for the brewpub,” I tell her, picking up the knife and moving it away. “Number stress him out sometimes, so he sharpened all my knives while we talked.”
“Ah,” she says. “Well, give him my compliments, I guess? Is that burning?”
I turn again, and the bacon is definitely smoking.
“Shit,” I say, and grab the tongs.
“You deal with that, I’m gonna go get a band aid,” Delilah says. “Bathroom?”
“Under the sink,” I say, flipping the bacon and making a face. Half-burnt and half-raw is the worst kind of bacon. “Give me a sec, I’ll come —"
“I stab people for a living, I can put a bandaid on my finger,” she calls, her voice already echoing from the bathroom.
I hear the sounds of the cabinet opening, of things being pulled out.
And then: “Oh!” followed by silence.
A long silence. No sounds of cardboard boxes opening or bandaids being unwrapped. Just silence.
I frown and turn the burner off.
“You okay?” I ask, wiping my hands on a dish towel, walking for the bathroom.