hot.”
“No, it was fine. Work is fine.”
“Personal trouble, then.”
“I have a dilemma I don’t know how to solve, yet. What’s a good place to have fun? You know, to meet good people, not a meat market.”
“What are you into? You’ll probably have better luck if you have mutual interests.”
“Yeah.”
“But if you just want to get out for some fun, there’s a little joint with open mike nights. Drinks, good snacks, live music…”
“That sounds perfect.”
He put the address in my phone. We chatted some more while I finished my drink, then I went home.
On the way, I let my hair down and retouched my lipstick.
Opening the door, I smelled butter. “Oh my god, what are you making?”
“Fettuccine alfredo. Seems appropriate for the weather.” The storm had passed, leaving cold winds in its wake. “Work late?”
“No. Ran an errand.”
“Well, this will be done in another five minutes or so.”
“Cool.” I put my jacket in the closet, but stayed in my work clothes and loosened a button. Hopped up on a bar stool and leaned on the counter. “I didn’t know you could make cream sauce, too.”
“You didn’t ask,” he replied, stirring the pot. His eyes flicked from my face to my chest then back to the food.
“Got me there. Patrick, what is your full repertoire of recipes?”
He smiled. “Too long to list now. How was your day?”
“Fine. Yours?”
“Pretty good, actually.” Explained him being talkative—for him.
“Oh? Did you come to their rescue again?”
“Nothing like that. I just have the routine now. I’m contributing.”
“You feel useful.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“I’m glad. Be right back.” I went into my bedroom and closed the door. My blouse wouldn’t show a stain if I dripped any sauce—which was likely—but I’d just gotten my trousers back from the dry cleaner. I put on a pair of yoga pants and left the shirt untucked.
Patrick was dishing up plates when I returned. “How would you feel about putting a small table in here?”
“Like a dining table?”
“There’s more space than the other place, so I think a small one could work here. Then we wouldn’t have to risk staining your sofa.”
“I’m open to the idea. Tell you what—find some pics of ones you like and I’ll look.”
He grinned. “It’s a plan.” Well, look at that. He wanted decorating input.
Us picking a table together. Very domestic.
Jess, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s a practical request .
We sat on the sofa. I’d be turning on The Voice at eight and he’d retreat to his computer, but the hours before my TV habits were our social time during the work week. “I’ll be late tomorrow night.”
“Oh?”
“Checking out some music with some friends. You could come, but I know crowds aren’t your scene.”
“Right. Well, enjoy.” Did he sound disappointed?
Nah. I heard what I hoped to hear when we talked and I needed to stop doing that. “Yeah, should be fun. With Ros away, I haven’t gotten out as much.”
“Of course. Do you like it?” he asked, indicating my plate.
“Very tasty.”
“Thank you.” He always took compliments on his cooking.
We ate the rest in companionable silence, then parted for the evening. I changed into a tank top before my show, just in case he came out for a snack or drink later.
The following day, I wore a skirt and tight sweater to work. If Patrick noticed before I left, he didn’t comment. Met up with Matt and his friends afterward and got a pleasant buzz early in the night, though I made sure I was sober enough to drive home.
It was around ten when I put my key in the door. To my surprise, Patrick was sitting on the sofa. “Hey.”
“How was your evening?”
“Fun.” I bent over to unbuckle my high-heel shoes. “My feet are wrecked.” I stepped out of them, picked them up, and sashayed into my room.
Felt
“No, it was fine. Work is fine.”
“Personal trouble, then.”
“I have a dilemma I don’t know how to solve, yet. What’s a good place to have fun? You know, to meet good people, not a meat market.”
“What are you into? You’ll probably have better luck if you have mutual interests.”
“Yeah.”
“But if you just want to get out for some fun, there’s a little joint with open mike nights. Drinks, good snacks, live music…”
“That sounds perfect.”
He put the address in my phone. We chatted some more while I finished my drink, then I went home.
On the way, I let my hair down and retouched my lipstick.
Opening the door, I smelled butter. “Oh my god, what are you making?”
“Fettuccine alfredo. Seems appropriate for the weather.” The storm had passed, leaving cold winds in its wake. “Work late?”
“No. Ran an errand.”
“Well, this will be done in another five minutes or so.”
“Cool.” I put my jacket in the closet, but stayed in my work clothes and loosened a button. Hopped up on a bar stool and leaned on the counter. “I didn’t know you could make cream sauce, too.”
“You didn’t ask,” he replied, stirring the pot. His eyes flicked from my face to my chest then back to the food.
“Got me there. Patrick, what is your full repertoire of recipes?”
He smiled. “Too long to list now. How was your day?”
“Fine. Yours?”
“Pretty good, actually.” Explained him being talkative—for him.
“Oh? Did you come to their rescue again?”
“Nothing like that. I just have the routine now. I’m contributing.”
“You feel useful.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“I’m glad. Be right back.” I went into my bedroom and closed the door. My blouse wouldn’t show a stain if I dripped any sauce—which was likely—but I’d just gotten my trousers back from the dry cleaner. I put on a pair of yoga pants and left the shirt untucked.
Patrick was dishing up plates when I returned. “How would you feel about putting a small table in here?”
“Like a dining table?”
“There’s more space than the other place, so I think a small one could work here. Then we wouldn’t have to risk staining your sofa.”
“I’m open to the idea. Tell you what—find some pics of ones you like and I’ll look.”
He grinned. “It’s a plan.” Well, look at that. He wanted decorating input.
Us picking a table together. Very domestic.
Jess, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s a practical request .
We sat on the sofa. I’d be turning on The Voice at eight and he’d retreat to his computer, but the hours before my TV habits were our social time during the work week. “I’ll be late tomorrow night.”
“Oh?”
“Checking out some music with some friends. You could come, but I know crowds aren’t your scene.”
“Right. Well, enjoy.” Did he sound disappointed?
Nah. I heard what I hoped to hear when we talked and I needed to stop doing that. “Yeah, should be fun. With Ros away, I haven’t gotten out as much.”
“Of course. Do you like it?” he asked, indicating my plate.
“Very tasty.”
“Thank you.” He always took compliments on his cooking.
We ate the rest in companionable silence, then parted for the evening. I changed into a tank top before my show, just in case he came out for a snack or drink later.
The following day, I wore a skirt and tight sweater to work. If Patrick noticed before I left, he didn’t comment. Met up with Matt and his friends afterward and got a pleasant buzz early in the night, though I made sure I was sober enough to drive home.
It was around ten when I put my key in the door. To my surprise, Patrick was sitting on the sofa. “Hey.”
“How was your evening?”
“Fun.” I bent over to unbuckle my high-heel shoes. “My feet are wrecked.” I stepped out of them, picked them up, and sashayed into my room.
Felt
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