Pairings

I wore the black slacks from Mango with a white silk blouse I bought off EBay the night I came to break up with my boyfriend.

Our relationship had run its course. I had the text written, but I never sent it. After more than a year together I felt obligated to give the news in person.

Somehow.

“Oh my god you look beautiful!” Chris said as I pushed through his apartment door.

Ya right. My face puffed, and my body ached from sweating up the three steep flights to his beige walled apartment. Another reason to end this. I offered him a damp red cheek for a kiss for his gracious lie.

In between jobs, this apartment was my safe place, where I never had to explain my tears, and could hide from my failures. Now the dated rooms felt like a prison. I threw my bag on the couch and swirled around the dining table, ignoring the two place settings of China and silverware to climb on the stool on the other side of the kitchen peninsula. The apartment gleamed, he had cleaned up for once.

“Let me guess. Salmon and, lemon rice.”

Like last time, and the time before that. I loved it the first night he cooked it, warm and comforting. The rice was too soft, and the salmon burnt, but I tasted his concern for me in it. But I’ve had enough bland flavors. I spent my life creating a distinguished palate, ordering the exotic dishes, and the unique delicacies. Now my new career depended on my taste for the exquisite. But salmon and lemon rice were the only thing Chris knew how to cook, the only thing he wanted to cook. Other than frozen pizza. My appetite, what little I had, evaporated.

Something smelled different though, a bitter under current? Lately my sense of smell has increased to a superpower. Maybe it was a scent from the candles placed everywhere around the kitchen.

“How was your day?” He asked.

I examined this man I had spent most of the last year with, when he wasn’t on his frequent business trips. Model handsome, his clear blue eyes reflected the candle lights on the counter. He had combed his blond hair, put on a pressed shirt under his leather strapped Hedley & Bennet apron. Today he’s the ‘Cafe Ken Doll’. So tedious, so boring.

“Oh, I’m worn out!” I sighed. “A hell of a day. We weren't even that busy, but the customers were so ick! One man asked for a 2010 Stags Leap and we were out! I found a 2014, but it wasn’t a good look. Then their plates were delayed in the kitchen. They had to wait an hour and threw a fit. But what they received was perfect! I tasted it, and Alfred knows to trust my palate, so he was pissed when they complained-”

I stopped. I'm not supposed to mention Alfred. Not tonight. He is separate.

“Anyway,” I wave my hand, “with the kitchen behind, tips were shit. I practically worked for free. I didn't eat though! I mean I sampled the family dinner. Alfred made a Portuguese rice with chouriço, a spiced sausage hard to get here. The flavor profile, my god it was magnificent! Although he spent all evening on it and didn’t prep any of the main menu. Just like a true artist, his time management is sus.” I smiled. “Unlike you, Mr. Go-Getter!”

Now's the time, before dinner surely.

“I’m glad we didn’t go out tonight. It'll give us a chance to talk.” I took a deep breath. “I’m -”

How do I begin?

The words won’t come out. Tasting the spice of the chouriço and rice. I licked my lips. “I think, Chris that our relationship -”

“Wine?” Chris said. “I got your favorite, a chardonnay.”

My first test. I frown at the winery, the vintage. A cheap grocery store brand. What do I say? I can't drink it. I can only say yes.

I take the glass and pretend to take a sip. “Mmm.”

“Good huh?” Chris beams. “This is for the first course. I have red, a mer-lot for the main course. Got to get the pairings right. I’m learning!”

“I’m not going to drink much, I’m so tired, sorry.” I look into the full glass. “This will be fine to pair with the salmon and rice.”

My head fell beneath my shoulders, and I slumped down on the stool.

“About that Chris, about pairings, about us. I need to tell you, something important-”

Chris held up his hand while I was in mid-sentence. “Let me tell you about my day! You’ll love this story. “My largest customer, Acme, Inc. called in, they just had to have their order rushed and-”

He began talking, telling me about the unique specific differences between blah, blah, blah and blah, blah; blah. He means well, but so boring! Who cares about what widget he sold to who, for how much. I zoned out and just watched. His hands were in constant motion, smoothing the countertop, picking up seen and unseen crumbs, over and over again. Stopping to gesture or stab or slash, all to emphasize a point he was making.

Slowly, circling back to prior topics, numbers and percentages falling from his mouth like scraps from a greasy sandwich and then with his constantly moving hands he picked them up and tossed them aside inconsequential to his goal of expressing himself, educating me, his audience, not on the topic at hand but that he is a master of it. Not to simply get his point across but to acrobatically vault over any arguments to land like a gymnast sticking a complicated vault, dramatically, both feet set, hands up. So fucking tedious.

He paused, and I missed the chance for my role in this, to applaud.

I blinked and closed my yawning mouth. “Oh yes, I can’t believe that either.” I finally say.

“Can’t believe what?” Chris asked, waiting. Eventually he clapped his hands.

“No lemon and rice tonight. I know how you talk about food all the time. So I made something special to celebrate!”

“To celebrate?” Somehow my plan has gone off the rails.

“The menu is just some simple recipes.” He winked. “We’ll start with…”

I hate his winks. I need to dump this guy and get out of this too warm apartment as soon as possible. I need to let him know we are done. How to tell him what I feel? My stomach rumbles, twisting in pain. This is my problem, pretending. I go along with his cheap wine and lemon rice because I don’t want to hurt him. Don’t want to hurt this vanilla man and his milk toast life. I swallow back the truth and wait.

A word catches my attention, and I put my hand up to stop his monologue.

“I missed that, say it again?”

“-the radicchio salad with tomatoes?”

“No before that-”

“-Oh!” Chris curled his thumb and forefinger as if he was holding silver dollars. “pan-roasted sea scallops, and then-”

“Chris, I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Scallops aren’t shellfish.” He shook his head. “I googled it! Mollusks! Totally different. You’ll be fine. And they are so easy! Just a little butter for two minutes each side. Who knew! Along with asparagus.” He held up a finger. “Did you know they are freshest right now, in the spring?”

Asparagus! That was the bitter smell. God I hate asparagus, they taste like some green metallic fiber.

“-and then Filet mignon au poivre.”

I shook my head.

“That’s the menu? Do you even know me?”

I pushed myself back from the counter, tilting back as the stool almost tipped.

“I made it special. You always say you want something new, different- ”Chris said.

“I don’t eat red meat! I’ve never eaten red meat!”

“No! Chris pointed. “You had that, BBQ at the new fusion restaurant last month. You raved about it, talked about how you felt primal, ripping the meat from the bones-”

“Those were, pork, ribs!”

“What’s the difference between pork, and filet mignon? It was the most expensive meat at Costco! I spent a fortune on that.” Chris’ face blazed red. "You never said you didn’t eat filet mignon!”

“If you’ve ever taken me out to a real steak restaurant, not TGI Fridays, or Applelbee’s-”

“You said you liked TGI Fridays!” Chris interrupted. “And the 50 cent wings on Mondays-”

“-Fuckin’ wings? I was being nice!” I breathed out. That might have been too strong.

“I have bread.” Chris’ shoulders fell. “ I bought a baguette, when I got the flowers.”

He pushed the white paper bag over and I pulled a rough hunk out of the loaf and took a bite. It was stale.

“I’m sorry.” Chris wiped his hands on his apron. “We can have salad and bread! I have ranch dressing, and-”

My opinion of ranch dressing must have flashed across my face because he made a sharp spin into a cupboard. “I think I have oil and vinegar. Does corn oil work?”

He directed me to the dining room table set up in his living room. It was a fabulous designer set, and I know his mother bought it for him. It should be featured in a glorious dining room, not a shabby apartment. I have trained myself to understand high fashion, true quality, and Chris could care less.

“Here, he pulled out my chair.

Damn, what is he planning. He added more wine to my untouched glass.

At this point I want to eat the radicchio lettuce dry, and escape. I’ll just text him.

The awkward dance of this evening had started off on the left foot and gotten worse each moment.

“This is nice, isn’t it.” Chris said.

A real napkin would have been nice, and a tablecloth. I fingered a gouge on the table finish.

Luckily my mouth was full of dry, undressed lettuce. I think I put that gouge there from a rowdy poker night half a year ago. I remember winning the pot off his friend George. I knocked over a glass diving for my hundred dollars in winnings. We had so much fun at the party, and then in his room after.

A gulp of wine to wash it down. “Great salad. Chris, I have something I need to talk to you about-”

“-Me too. Laura, I believe you’re going to remember this day for the rest of your life.”

He stood up, digging deep into one pocket, palming, something. He dropped to one knee.

Oh shit. The small velvet box popped open, a diamond the size of a golf ball, no bigger, burst out. I blinked against its brilliant glare.

“Laura, I know I'm not the most interesting person, and not the best listener, but I want to learn with you. Build a life, together. Will you marry me?” He flashed a thousand-watt smile.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

This man, rich, and handsome was on a trajectory to financial success that just didn't happen to poor girls from Oakland. But he doesn't know my secret. If we slept together tonight, then maybe he would never know.

I looked around the beige walls, beige carpet, and thought about a future beige life. I tasted the bitter radicchio.

I couldn’t do this for a year, how could I live the rest of my life like this?

Chris still on his knee, pushed the ring forward.

My stomach lurched, and I couldn’t help myself. I puked the truth onto his beige carpet. I recognized the chouriço and rice. My body had made the decision for me.

“Oh, are you OK?” Chris said. “Was it the salad?”

“They call it morning sickness. But it happens all day.” I wiped my face with the paper napkin.

“Morning sickness? You- you're pregnant! Oh my god, why didn't you say anything!” His smile brightened. “Now we have to get married!”

I took a sip of the wine and just waited. How dumb is he? He spends all his time creating sales forecasts, he has to be able to do math.

“How far long?” His voice squeaked. ”I don't understand. We always use protection, and I’ve been gone, in Atlanta -”

“It’s not yours.” I fell back in the chair, choking back another wave of nausea. I tried to remember what I put in the breakup text message, but my head swirled with the romance novel I was reading.

“I need to take a break. It’s not you, it’s me. You deserve better than me.” I recited.

The real reason I didn’t know how to say. That Chris was my Moms favorite, not mine. That the spiced flavors of my life would be lost with Chris and his family. That Chris bored me to tears. That I lied to him. We just didn’t pair well together. I couldn’t get those words out.

Chris tilted his head. I could see understanding lighting up behind his eyes like the flambe on a Cherries Jubilee.

“Oh no, Alfred? That chef you work with? He’s a drunk, he’s 15 years older than you and, he smokes!”

Chris cursed out the word, throwing down the worst insult.

I tossed the napkin on top of the vomit on the floor.

A nudge at the back of my mind suggested I should clean the mess, but I ignored it. I needed to go.

“I’m sorry.”

I stumbled down the three flights and outside to the cold evening. The brisk wind kissed my tear-streaked cheeks. In the wet, heavy air I smelled a storm coming.

Suddenly I was starving. I wanted something plain, my body wanted, no demanded, lemon rice. I looked up to his window, a solid block of warm yellow light against the dark, cloud filled sky. I had almost nothing in my own pantry.

I hugged my belly, suddenly scared, and began walking home.

I was going to have to learn to cook for myself.