Spooning (22 page)

On my way home, I stopped by the local wine store. During the late afternoon the wine stores in New York tended to have wine tastings and not being a wine connoisseur, I had decided to educate myself. Half an hour later, a tad tipsy, and with a box containing four wine bottles under my arm, I felt prepared. The wine store owner was a bit perplexed as to which wine was best served with a vegetable casserole, so I had bought two not-so-cheap bottles of white wine and two definitely-not-so- cheap bottles of red.

The actual cooking process was not as traumatic as I thought. I had even scattered pieces of the Diva's toffee throughout the apartment for dessert—a bread crumb trail of sorts to my bedroom. Syd briefly burst my bubble when she
came into the kitchen and asked what the green sticks peeking out of the casserole crust were.

“Beans!” I shouted. “Didn't you ever have veggies as a child?”

“Yeah, but I don't remember beans in Wade's recipe,” she said as she stuck her nose closer to the dish. Goddamn, kitchen police!

“I couldn't find the artichoke hearts, so I grabbed beans,” I explained. When she gave me one of her glazed looks, I continued, “They're both green!”

“Oh, right,” agreed Syd. But her obvious lack of faith gave me pause. Did I want to be in the same boat as Syd when a recipe began to sink?

L
ater that night, Mr. J. P. Morgan had seemed amused as I fluttered about, apron over my plunging wrap top and new jeans. The mismatched wineglasses were a bit streaked, and the cloth napkins smelled of spray starch. But I plastered on a big grin as I brought out the bubbling casserole, teetering on my one pair of Manolo Blahniks.

“You know, we could have just gone out,” he said. Well, of course we could have gone out to a restaurant, if he'd ever bothered to ask me. But he hadn't.

“Oh, don't be silly. I'm loving this cooking stuff. I swear, I might become a pro someday.”

“Are you Italian?” Why did men think that only Italian women could cook?

“I think somewhere on my mom's side,” I lied. “I'm pretty much a mutt.” Then I winced. Way to go, Charlie. Equate yourself to a dog! I unfolded my napkin on my lap, unlike my
dinner date, and watched him take a minuscule bite of the casserole. I waited …

I knew I would see his eyes light up, his crooked grin widen, as he savored the taste of my exquisite meal. Unfortunately, his eyes crossed a bit, and he choked back a laugh.

“C, what's in this?” he asked.

“It's a family secret,” I began.

“Damn, girl, put it back in the vault!”

What? What had gone wrong? I took a bite and almost choked, choked on my tears. It tasted nothing like Wade's dish had. There was a sour taste in place of the tangy zip. What could I have possibly done wrong? I looked up just in time to see Mr. J. P. Morgan blowing out the candles.

“Come on, let's go out, my treat. Let's grab some burgers and catch the end of the game across the street,” he suggested, twirling on his scarf as if he were Cary Grant.

“But this was supposed to be
my
treat!”

“You can treat me later in bed,” he hinted with that impish grin of his. Under normal circumstances, I would have melted, but domestic ambition had gotten the better of me.

“No, wait. I wanted to treat you to dinner,” I began.

“Fine. Then you can grab the bill. Let's go,” he said as he held a coat out for me. Struggling to keep my feelings inside, and struggling to get my arms into Syd's too-small-for-me coat that he had erroneously grabbed from the hook, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Once there, I burst into tears. Macie, who was ensconced in her bedroom with the flu, snuck in behind me.

“What happened?”

“I don't know,” I cried, trying to retouch my now smeared mascara.

“Did you follow the recipe?”

“Yes! Well, almost.”

“Oh, Charlie!”

“I used green beans instead of artichokes. But they're both green!”

“Yes, they are,” she sympathized. “But they're still different foods and that could change the flavor of the recipe, you know. Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetie. You tried, and that's all that matters.”

“I guess not because now he wants to go watch the game, and on top of it all, he somehow suggested that I pay for dinner!”

“Bastard.”

B
astard, bastard, bastard, is all I thought as he high-fived his three buddies at the bar where we were now dining. I squinted across the packed table that we were sharing with nine others. Was he cute? For the past four months I had thought so. I squinted harder. Maybe I did need glasses. No, he was cute. The three blondes by the bar staring at him confirmed it for me. So he didn't like my cooking. Was that such a big deal? I could hardly blame him, after all. I reflected again that I'd been a tad emotionally scarred by all those Prince Charmings in the Disney movies. They'd ruined generations of women by building up our expectations and selling us on something we could never have. Disney had franchised everything else; why couldn't they produce a line of Prince Charmings, $19.95 plus shipping. Could J. P. Morgan ever be my Prince Charming? One of the players scored and he turned and flashed me that oh-so-perfect smile. But as I watched him lean over and take a slobbering bite of his burger, I had to wonder …

“
S
o the dinner was a disaster!” I concluded, conjuring up my best Susan Lucci dramatics.

“Did he at least come back for dessert?” Tara asked.

“Yep. And …” Here I smiled in spite of myself. “I think we are beyond
just
sex.”

“No,” sighed Sage.

“You didn't,” moaned Wade.

“She spooned! You did! Just tell us!” Tara pleaded as she jumped off the counter.

Spooning. Such a simple concept, yet so hard to perfect. I swear that both parties not only have to be willing, they just have to be … a particular fit. The ability to spoon properly requires a little bit of fate mixed in with destiny. Kind of like cooking. Some things just blend together beautifully regardless of proportions. Chocolate and peanut butter, turkey and cranberry. But some combinations can't be forced.

When spooning is right, it doesn't matter how tall or short the participants are. It doesn't matter how fat or thin. No matter what your body types, you almost melt into each other. You are not hyperaware of each other, staying awake for hours locked in one position. No, it's like falling into a warm bath or nestling under a featherbed. You can't feel any unwanted body hair on either body. No body part goes numb or gets that tingling feeling from falling asleep. Rather, the warm breath on the back of your neck is like a baby's sigh or a puppy's snore. Contentness at its best.

“We spooned!” I shrieked.

“And …” Tara prodded.

“Well, it was the first night of
real
cuddling.”

“And … did you sleep like a satisfied baby?”

“No …”

“You didn't sleep? Oh, is he a pillow stealer?”

“No, I mean I didn't sleep, but not in a bad way at all. I think I was just so excited that he had me in a bear hug and didn't let go or relax his grip once! The tension in his forearms was divine!”

“For how long?”

“What, you think I timed it?”

“For roughly how long, Charlie?” demanded Tara. I could hear my father now, “It always comes back to math.” I could make him proud with this one.

“Fine. We started spooning around 10:37, after forty-nine minutes of nooky—”

“Does nooky include sex?” asked Syd.

“For God's sake!” Tara answered for me.

“And, I finally got up to go to the bathroom at 1:31.” There was silence. “Two hours and fifty-six minutes.” I looked around.

“You got up? Honey, what were you thinking?” asked Wade.

“I had to go,” I reasoned.

“In the middle of your first spooning encounter? No, you hold it,” scolded Sage.

“I had to go!” I wailed. “If I don't go to the bathroom after sex, I get UTIs!”

“Oh, so nooky does include sex,” concluded Syd, nodding to herself.

“Good God, did you at least weasel your way back in?” asked Tara. I think my face must have fallen, because Macie put down her glass of water and threw an arm over my shoulders.

“No. He had flipped over and was hugging the pillow,” I said. I didn't bother to add how I had pondered the situation
from every single angle; had debated how to mattress dive my way back into the spooning position. Nor did I mention that he had stolen both pillows, yet again.

“He did flip a leg over mine mid early morning.”

“Atta, girl!” shouted Tara.

“Did you get any sleep at all?” Macie asked.

“Nope!” I said raising my can of Red Bull. “But the spooning was worth it.” The girls nodded. End of subject.

L
ife seemed to seep from the city in the last days of January and there was a lag time full of gray, cold days. The East Coast, where New York not-so-silently lies, began to be pounded by wet winter storms from the Atlantic.

Forget the fluffy white stuff you see in the movies. It might come down white, but in New York, within a matter of minutes, it is transformed into black, sticky slush. But it's not the snow, or lack thereof, that bothers most of us city folk. It's the frigid, nail-biting wind that gets your goat. Try coming around the corner of our street onto Broadway, only to be pummeled by winds so fierce and biting that you feel tears come to your eyes. Soon your mascara-streaked cheeks reflect the gray tones of the slush underfoot. And to add insult to the injurious bitter chill that constantly runs through your veins, think
Marshmallow Woman Takes New York
! And you thought
Ghostbusters
was an overexaggeration! Hell, fellow commuters on the subway literally bounce off your puffy (yet warm), not-so-stylish jacket. Desperate times call for desperate fashion measures. So if that means bulking up and looking ten pounds heavier top- side, so be it. Survival of the fittest takes on new meaning in winter.

When the temperature dropped to Arctic levels in the city, I realized that the change of season was going to be a severe shock to my system, especially January mornings. They were the absolute worst.

But I was already about twenty-one days late. No, I was not late for the big P (aka period), but rather, for sending out my holiday thank-you cards. My mother had drilled it into my head, that if the gift giver is not present, a thank-you card must be sent. I had finally pumped out my last four cards when I realized I was out of stamps. Not wanting to lose momentum, I decided that I had to brave the bitter cold morning to go purchase some. As I left our building, our maintenance man was watering the sidewalks with a hose. I almost pointed out that he was creating a hazard as the wind chill was about fifteen below zero, but I was bolstered by his ambition, and just gave him a holiday smile.