The luscious aroma of tomatoes and herbs filled my tiny kitchen, as a small pan filled with sauce simmered on top of the stove. Behind it, water boiled in a stainless steel pot. I poured a half box of spaghetti into the water, stirring the pot and watching the stiff pasta sink gradually into the water, as the Dave Matthews Band played in the background.
I grabbed an open bottle of Rolling Rock from the counter and took a deep drink. One of the side benefits of my arrangement with Carmen Quintana, in addition to a clean apartment, and spectacular sex, was rediscovering my love of cooking.
I grew up following my mother around in the kitchen, watching as she made her special brand of magic. She talked to me all the while as she cooked, explaining how she prepared our food, and how different flavors complemented each other. In my teens, she had me start cooking dinner on my own, letting me experiment with different foods, always coming to my rescue when I lost my way.
By the time I moved into my own apartment, I was an excellent home cook. As time passed, however, I drifted away from the culinary arts. Long nights preparing cases for trial or hanging around in bars after work led to more and more restaurants and take out meals. Often, I was so tired when I came home from work, I reached for a menu rather than shop.
Carmen challenged me to do better. When I mentioned how I'd enjoyed cooking in my younger days, she put her foot down, insisting I provide her with home cooked meals when she came over. She shopped one day each week, bringing home all the goods I would need to make dinner for her three nights a week.
Her challenge added a new dimension to my life. I wasn't only tying to keep up with her in bed anymore. I wanted to impress her, surprise her with my culinary creations. I downloaded recipes and bought a couple of cookbooks. I started cooking almost every night to sharpen my skills.
The rewards proved substantial. Carmen's sexual hunger seemed to grow with the meals I fed her. The flavors and aromas heightened all her senses and she brought all those senses into my bedroom, teasing, frustrating and, ultimately, amazing me with the heights of joy she brought me to.
Tonight, sadly was only about me. It was spring break, and Carmen decided to take a rest from her teaching assistant duties by spending the week with her mother on Long Island. I hoped Carmen's sister, Vanessa, might fill the void, as she had a few times over the months, but Vanessa had hopped down to Daytona Beach with her roommates.
"God help the "Girls Gone Wild" producer who runs into her," I chuckled as I pulled my chicken parmesan out of the oven, laying it on a plate to rest. "She might give them enough material for a DVD of her own."
So here I was, playing bachelor for a week. After dinner, I planned to put my feet up and watch the Yankees throw down with the Red Sox. If I wasn't too worn out after that, I might check out whatever soft core skin flick Cinemax was running that night. Suddenly, a series of sharp raps turned my attention to the front door.
Flipping the deadbolt lock, I opened the door to behold my downstairs neighbor Hannah, her arms crossed in front of her, and her strawberry blond curls tumbling down past her shoulders. A bit of cleavage peeked out of her scooped neck pink tee shirt, and her hips hugged a pair of long-legged denim jeans.
"Hi, Hannah. What can I do for you?"
"Um, hi, Manuel. Could I, maybe, talk to you?"
"Of course," I said, stepping aside to allow her into the apartment. "Would you like a glass of wine, or something else?"
"No, thank you, I, oh my God, what have you done in here? It looks so . . . so . . ."
"Clean?" I laughed?
"No, I mean, yes, but," she stammered. "I mean, every time I have come up here, this place looked like a, well, a pigsty. No offense."
"None taken," I chuckled as I pulled a chair away from the dining table and straddled it, facing the back of the chair.
Hannah continued gaping as she sat across from me on the couch.
"How long did it take you to get your place looking this good?"
"I'd love to take the credit," I smiled, "but I had a lot of help. My maid, Carmen, did most of the hard work."
"Maid? You have a maid?"
"Yeah, she's come here a couple of times a week since December. She's totally transformed the place."
"Is she the, um, petite, dark-haired woman I've seen a few times on the stairs?"
"Uh, no, actually, that's Vanessa. She's Carmen's sister. Carmen's my maid, but Vanessa, she's . . . filled in for Carmen a few times, you see, well, its a little complicated."
"I don't need to know the details, Manuel. It's just . . ." she began looking around nervously as her voice trailed off.
"Just what, Hannah?"
"I'm not exactly sure how to, um, say this," she said, fingering the long gold chain hanging around her neck. I golden knot swing at the end of the chain, grazing the cleavage the peeked out of the top of her tee shirt.
"The past few months," she continued, " I have noticed these, uh, women coming up to your apartment several times a week. I would seem them, say hello to them.. They seemed very nice."
"They are very nice." I smiled. "What exactly is wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, exactly," she answered, running her fingers through her curls. "It's just, later, those nights when I would see them, I, well, I could hear."
"Hear? What did you hear?" I asked, my face a mask of confusion.
"You know, I mean, you heard . . . could I have some water?"
"Sure," I smiled, rising from my chair. Grabbing a glass tumbler off a shelf near the sink. I opened the freezer and popped a couple of ice cubes out of a tray. I opened the fridge and poured a glass full of filtered water.
"Excuse me a minute," I said pleasantly, as I covered the chicken with foil and put it back in the oven, drained the pasta, and dumped it into the sauce, covering the pan.
I watched Hannah as I walked toward the couch. She looked jittery, her legs bouncing nervously, her head down. I sat down next to her and offered the glass.
"Here you go," I said soothingly.
"Thanks," she whispered, taking the glass and almost draining it in one long gulp.
"Why are so nervous, Hannah? What do you think you heard up here?"
"You know what I heard! I'm not crazy!" she snapped, rising quickly and walking across the room.
"I just want you to tell me what it is you heard," I said calmly.
"I heard . . . I heard, I heard you having sex with these women!" she finally blurted, her back to me.
"And that . . . disturbs you , Hannah? You never struck me as a prude."
"I'm not disturbed. It's just . . . it's just . . ."
"Just what?"
"Its just . . so loud."
I snorted before I could stop myself.
