“The oven is huge,” I said.
“Yeah, takes up all of the space.”
“Looks like it’s fifty years old,” I said.
“At least.”
He hung my wet shirt above the oven. “Should be dry by the time we’ve finished lunch.”
“Smells good. What’ve you got cooking in that big oven?”
He laughed modestly. “You could fit a small horse in that oven, true. But, I’ve only got two lonely potatoes baking in there.” He motioned to the pot on the stovetop. “Plus, I’ve made us some of my famous chickpea soup.”
He pulled on the handle of the oven door. It didn’t budge. “Damn. This happens sometimes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The oven works well, but the handle gets stuck sometimes.” He moved to the side. “Here, can you give me a hand?”
“What do I do?”
“Pull on the oven handle. I’ll try to work on the side here. It’s warped on the side. When the door gets stuck, you have to push in to get it to open.”
I pulled on the handle while he slipped behind me, reached over my shoulder, and applied pressure to the side of the oven.
“Pull,” he said.
“I am pull...” The door yanked open. A puff of steam blew in my face, and I jumped back, knocking into him. We both went careening against the wall, but he caught me in his arms and kept me from falling.
I looked into the oven. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. You could probably fit a couch in there.”
He turned me around and looked into my eyes with a serious expression on his face. “Why would you want to bake a couch?”
I shrugged. “I mean, just that it’s big.”
He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.
“What?” I hit him playfully on the arm. “You said you could fit a small horse in there. Why would you want to bake a horse?”
He rocked his head from side to side. “Fair point. But a couch?”
I turned back around to face the oven. I bent down and had a better look inside. “Correction. You could fit a whole living room set in here.”
He put his hands on my waist, and I wished so badly that I had listened to my inner Bonita voice and not kept my wet pants on.
“Excuse me,” he said. He pushed me toward the stove, slipped out from behind me, and handed me an oven mitt. “I think the potatoes are ready. Would you care to do the honors?”
8
Jake
I could either assume Greta wasn’t coming over and spend the afternoon on the deep web looking for new clients, or I could prepare for her to come over and hope for the best.
Only one of those options—although by far the least likely—ended in me and Greta spending time together without her nervously glancing over her shoulder at cages and a gingerbread wall and a mattress.
Even though I didn’t have any expectations that she would actually show, it did me good to prepare as if she would. I hadn’t cleaned up the place in weeks, and it showed.
I put the cages out in the yard, hung a curtain to hide the mattress and the video set, and used cinder blocks and a plank for a makeshift table that I draped with a cloth. I plucked a few flowers from outside that I put in an improvised vase (a wine bottle that had been tossed into the yard) and made a soup. Now, all I had to do was wait… and hope.
As I was berating myself for my unwarranted optimism, the sky opened up and a hard rain began to fall.
So much for going out for a jog. I’ll have to find another way to work out my frustrations.
At first, I assumed the knocks at the door were from the rain, and I silently cursed the universe for mocking me. I’m waiting for a girl, who is never going to come, and you have to rub it in by mimicking a knocking at the door.
Then the knocks became more insistent, and I rushed to the door. I opened, not with any confidence that someone—let alone Greta—would be on the other side. But, there she was, my most fantastical and improbable desire in the flesh.
“Come in, Greta. My goodness, you’re soaking wet.”
I had to bite my tongue every time I got the urge to apologize. I’m sorry all I could make you was soup and a baked potato. I’m sorry there isn’t any bread. I’m sorry the place isn’t nicer. I’m sorry there isn’t any heating.
Halfway through lunch, my tongue was sore from being chomped on.
I knew Greta had grown up in orphanages like me. She was surely used to meager surroundings, and she never complained or commented on the sad state of the workshop I was using as a squat. Still, she was so beautiful and held herself with such poise and grace, I felt like I was entertaining a movie star. And I was very self-conscious.