To Sir, with Love

“Hey, babe,” she says over her shoulder, fussing with something on the stove with one hand, pouring herself a glass of wine with the other. She lifts the bottle. “Chianti?”

“Why not?” I get myself a glass, and she pours without spilling a drop, even though her gaze never leaves the grilled cheese.

I look around my kitchen. There is a lot of grilled cheese, with about a half dozen different breads and cheeses.

“PMS craving?”

“Not entirely a bad guess,” she says, using the edge of a spatula—hers, not mine, she hates my kitchen tools—to test the crispness of what looks to be raisin bread.

“Last-minute baby shower tomorrow. Some local politician’s wife has apparently been craving grilled cheese for her entire pregnancy, so they’re going with a grilled cheese bar and want six different options. I talked them down from ten, which is just nuts. And since Grady’s got a date tonight, I’m on my own to come up with the selections, which suits me fine since he had the gall to suggest cashew cheese.”

“Horror,” I say loyally, scanning the half dozen sandwiches on my counters. “Are any of these rejects?”

“Take your pick and be honest about your thoughts, because they’re all good, and I’ve got to narrow it down. But don’t even think about axing the smoked Gouda on sourdough, browned in bacon fat. That stays. Oh, and imagine all of them infinitely better, because they’ll be made with homemade bread, which is rising upstairs. Hence why I’m here.” She waggles the spatula at me. “The temperature upstairs is just right for bread rising, and I can’t mess with it.”

The sandwiches all sort of look the same, so I pick up the one closest to me and take a bite of the corner, my eyes closing as I let out a low moan. The cheese is creamy and a tiny bit funky, and there’s both a sweetness and a bitterness that play off each other perfectly.

“Taleggio, escarole, and caramelized onions,” she says, pushing her headband back with her wine hand.

“I normally wouldn’t let a leafy green near my grilled cheese,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “But the bitterness really works here. This makes the short list.”

I pick up another sandwich that looks a lot like the grilled cheese we used to get on Fridays in school, only a million times better. I stare at the sandwich in wonder. “I don’t remember American cheese tasting like this.”

“That’s because it’s homemade,” she says.

“Please, let’s run away together.” I take another bite, wash it down with wine, and stare at my friend adoringly. “Live happily ever after, just us and this cheese.”

“I totally would,” she says, checking the underside of the sandwich she’s making and then flipping off the burner. “But you’re missing a body part I really like. Though, if I keep having dates like last night, don’t think I won’t come knocking.”

“I thought you were excited about this one.” I ponder my other sandwich options and pick up one with apples and Brie, I think.

“I was. He told me I looked like Beyoncé.”

“So?” I say around a delicious mouthful. “That’s a major compliment.”

“Girl, anytime a man tells you that you look like Queen Bey on the first date, before the bruschetta even gets to the table and while ogling your boobs, he’s looking for one night and one night only. Bleck,” she says, holding her palms up. “Not even worth discussion.”

She picks up one of the grilled cheeses I’ve already tried, adds her own bite mark, then gestures toward my work in progress with the sandwich. “You seemed super into it today—didn’t even notice when I got distracted grating cheese and burned the butter on round two.”

I roll my shoulders a little and wipe my greasy fingers on my dirty painting smock. “Yeah, trying something a little different. Masculine. A little cooler. Hard to get the lines right. It started out too washed out, then got too dark, but after a few false starts, I’m happy with it.”

“I love it. It’s enchanting, as your stuff always is, but it’s a little sexy too. Plus, the eyes on that guy.” She gives a sexy shiver. “Can you imagine if they made eyes that color in real life? You’d have to hose me down on the regular.”

The eyes? I frown and glance over at my painting, then toss the sandwich I’ve just picked up back onto the plate, appetite gone.

I’ve made the man’s eyes aqua.

So much for my art helping me forget about men.

To Sir, in shameless prying,

I know you ended up on this app as a mistake, but I’ve found myself wondering—why did your friend set up a profile for you on THIS app? It’s hardly the most popular—and the idea of being matched with someone you’ve never seen is not everyone’s cup of tea.