*Surprise, Bitch.
All characters are 18+*
*****
"What would you like?"
He was standing in the center of his spacious kitchen, with its slick granite counters and shiny chrome finishing. The sleeves of his green sweater were rolled up halfway to his elbows, showing toned forearms and lines of scars as neat as cross-ties on a railroad track.
His hands were open, palms tilted towards me in a universal gesture of plenty and benevolence.
What would I like? I mouthed it, changing the 'you' to an 'I', tasting the words and contemplating just how completely foreign they felt in my mouth. How strange my own sense of autonomy felt, resting on my shoulders like a weight.
I shrugged. Trying to shrug this strange new feeling off my shoulders.
He shrugged right back at me, his palms tilted towards me as if his hands were boats, and the palms were tilted towards heaven.
"I don't buy things that I don't like to eat. You can pick something, and you wont have to worry about it being something gross. I like to cook, so it wont be any trouble." He laughed, a little self-consciously. His arms, tired, dropped to his sides. "Remember the omelets?"
I nodded, and I felt a faint smile on my face.
"I cooked them all in about twenty minutes, but that was after at least an hour of prepping everything, so it would be perfect. Whatever you want, it wont be as long or messy as those omelets were."
He started looking in a pantry and pulling some things out. "Just spitballing here..." He murmured, his head buried in the cupboard. His voice was so much quicker, easier. He was almost hyper. It was a change.
I stood back a little, watching as he pulled out a few things. Pasta, cans of soup, pancake mix. He moved to the fridge and pulled out a package of hamburger, some asparagus, a frozen pizza.
I poked my head in the refrigerator when he backed away a little, and looked around. I started pulling a few things out, putting them together in one spot on the counter. A little hesitantly, looking at him for confirmation.
Orange juice. A red string bag of clementines. A shiny yellow pepper. A jar of salty green olives. A bag of shredded cheese.
I edged around the kitchen, glancing at him. I went to the basket on the counter, and I took out a tomato, an onion, and pried a clove of garlic from the half-bulb in the basket. I put that in the pile.
Last I checked the cupboard hoping against hope. It was a little dizzying to see so much food at once, and so much of it was fresh. I found an open bag of rice, the torn end twisted and clamped shut with a red pin. I brought it out and put it in the pile.
I moved the things around. I put the pepper, tomato, garlic, rice, and shredded cheese in one pile, and everything else in another pile. Then I wiped my hands together and looked nervously at him from under the fringe of my hair. It seemed like too much. I felt foolish, and a little embarrassed. I should have shrugged harder, gotten him to make a choice.
"Stuffed peppers?" I nodded, and reached out to tap the tomato. "Stuffed peppers and tomatoes... Do you want to try stuffing them with beef and rice? Or just rice?" As he spoke, he was putting away the other options. He went to the sink and started washing his hands.
I moved the three pound package of hamburger decisively into the pile, and he grinned, shaking off his hands.
"Let's get started, then."
--
I wanted to stay in the kitchen, and I also wanted to help make the food. It was fun, and I was hungry and I wanted to help.
But I was also pretty timid about handling the food.
Lots of people thought that Onus were dirty because of the sensory patches. That we had sensory organs that were always exposed, and often damp because of natural secretions that cleaned them, like tears. And every Onus had small patches on their fingertips, and on the upper part of the palm.
I washed my hands over and over. So many times that the skin on my knuckles became flaky. I tried not to touch any food that wasn't covered or in a package or covered by a skin, like the fruit and peppers.
I tried not to touch the inside of the peppers or chopped onion for a simpler reason.
The radio was on. I saw Sam's foot tapping. The way we were moving, it was like a very careful dance. Or like two magnets. We were near each other, but whenever he moved a little closer to me, I would take a step back. Whenever he crossed the kitchen away from me, I would follow a little ways behind. I couldn't seem to stop.
Before we got the two stuffed peppers and two stuffed tomatoes in the oven, my feet were starting to ache, and Sam reminded me that I had just had surgery yesterday, so I took some pain pills and rested on the couch while Sam cleaned some dishes and countertops and prepared the non-entree elements of the meal.
"Catch." He threw a clementine orange at me. I missed, and the small fruit bounced off my forearm, and onto the couch. I felt my face flushing a little, but I picked up the orange and started to peel.
Oranges were something I hadn't tasted in a very long time. Apparently, they used to be really cheap. But after the Onus, there was no such thing as cheap labor. Population had decreased too rapidly.
I wondered if they were cheaper now because the Onus in California were old enough to pick fruit.
Orange peels were an exercise in frustration. I had to peel it with my fingers, and the peel pelted my fingertips with bitter zest as I bruised it. I made a face from the bitter taste on my fingertips as I tried to use my nails.
When I finally got the peel off, I nibbled at a slice until the membrane was gone from one side of the wedge. I touched the peeled juicy flesh with my fingers, soaking away the memory of bitterness with the sweet.
"Does it taste different? With your fingers, I mean?"
I quickly put my sticky fingers in my mouth, eating the ragged slice as well. It was sweet, popping on my long grey tongue. I looked up at Sam, feeling guilty, like a dog.
