Under My Boss's Direction

One might ask why I chose to dress up for a simple delivery.

The answer is, as simple as can be, that I haven't in weeks.

What would be the point not to?

And no. I did not dress up for him. Sweatpants can just get a little too old.

Or at least that’s what I told myself when I got dressed up to come over here.

I’m peering at the food he had made when he comes back down, except that I hadn’t heard him approaching.

"You like it? It's my grandpa's old Thanksgiving recipe."

"God.” I jump, despite myself. “Why'd you sneak in like that?"

From the hole in the wall that has either Saw or Chocolate Factory vibes I see my boss, all covered up now, sadly. He mouths an apology and throws the towel onto the bubbling pot before leaning his face close to the aroma rising up from it.

"Now I know what you're thinking. A Thanksgiving recipe for Christmas, right?"

"Yes. Why?" I ask.

He smacks his hands together and rubs them, licks his bottom lip and arches his back, puffs out his chest and widens his eyes.

"Because why not? That's why. Come on, wash up and help me set up two plates. We need you fed and watered before sending you home."

Well, who could protest to that? I wonder.

Before long, we’re eating his Thanksgiving meal on Christmas Eve.

"So, how do you keep sane through all this?” he asks me. “Family? Friends?"

"I’ve been doing okay. I think this sauce is amazing, by the way. What's your secret?"

"Salt and good memories."

Laughing, I say, "I see. Well, I talk to my mother a lot. At least twice a week. Not so many of my friends these days can deal with the madness of the season, you know? Debby, my roomy from college, has been a strong pillar for me. I guess she's gone through worse than just staying at home and working on her online MBA."

"Wow. I guess there really are some people out there making use of their time, huh?"

"Oh yeah. I actually feel really lucky we’re still in business when so many have had to close down."

"Oh, it's not luck, honey. We're hard workers at Combey Inc. I have the best team a guy could ask for. Hand delivering me my paperwork. Joining me for dinner and interesting conversation."

He lingers his forked potatoes in the air, letting the last line sink in.

It has been twenty minutes of chatting, sharing, and not once has he brought up our nighttime chats.

Will he?

It's almost dusk, and my plate is almost done.

"What do you miss the most about the Old World?" he asks, wiping his plate with a fresh twirl of pasta.

"That's what we're calling it now?"

"I was a huge fan of The Walking Dead. Still am. I’ve been waiting on this to end so that they can bring it back, at least for the finale. For closure, I suppose. So, yeah, that's what TWD fans call it. Do you miss some of the old things we used to do?"

"I'm still shocked that I'm having dinner with a fanboy."

He chuckles and wets his tongue with wine.

"Like you're not a fangirl, huh?"

"Oh, I am. But... not everyone gets it. Three guesses, and I'll tell you what I miss the most of the 'Old World,' other than new episodes of The Walking Dead."

"Three?" he repeats.

I nod. He lets the fork and knife clutter on the table, wipes his mouth and sighs, then, smiling, he closes his eyes.

“Movie theaters.”

"Oh, close. Not my number one, though."

“Shopping.”

"Damn. On the second try, not to mention."

Awed, and quietly impressed, I breathe in heavily and say, "I miss how we had the option of going anywhere we wanted to. I miss that choice."

"Aw, come on. Do better. I just guessed your favorite fandoms in a snap. Gimme the meat. What do you really miss?"

Denue has this cute tendency to never relent. Once, he told me to get him Rocky Road ice cream. All they had was butterscotch in a family-sized tub, but that wasn’t good enough. I spent an entire day driving around town, and online, searching for his perfect scoop.

I rescind that statement slightly. It's cute until it's not.

Shrugging, I say: "I miss human contact. The way that people interact. The way I feel when I’m with someone I like."

"There we go." His arms widen and rise, and then fall. "Truth, finally."

Both our phones buzz hard, before I can ask him if he can give me a ride home, or call a cab if he'd like, and curiosity gets the better of us.

The gripping color of this alert: I've only seen it once before when, an hour later, a hurricane swept my father's house off the ground.

Chapter Four

Nellie

Axel Amador called it his 'little red house on a hill,' My father was not wrong in his description. The finishing touches done over ten years ago had not changed one bit over the years.