by Jamie Knight
It was so cold I couldn’t stand it for long. I got out hastily, readied myself and pulled an apron over my ass to make Christmas Eve dinner.
Cooking for one plate had never been easier.
Before long, the pasta was boiling.
The meatballs were sizzling.
The potatoes were baking.
The aromas were filling my house.
A commercial came up on the screen, and something in passing— a giddy woman with her arm wrapped around another bigger, meatier one, or a lamppost with a freshly woven wreath on it signed Merry Christmas— got me thinking of my quiet muse once more.
Of course I called her.
I’d never been known for my patience or impulse control. Instead, I was the type to take what I want when I wanted it.
And there was nothing I wanted more for Christmas than the beautiful, curvaceous Nellie.
I just didn’t expect to see her so soon, parcel in hand, in person at my doorstep, looking more radiant than the last time we laid eyes on each other.
Honestly, this could go a bit more professionally if I had a shirt on underneath the beige Kiss the Cook’s Spoon wrapped around my naked middle.
Chapter Three
Nellie
"I thought you would have had it delivered," Denue says, chuckling.
"Um, so sorry to have intruded on your evening plans. I just thought it would be better if I delivered this in person. Privacy and all that."
It would have been smarter to have it delivered. The cab, the walk, another cab and more walking on this side of the neighborhood had not been my best ideas. I got looks from a lot of people because I was clearly an outsider in this ritzy part of town.
"Makes sense,” he says, shrugging. "Well, since you're here, would you mind joining me for dinner?"
"You're sure?"
"I insist."
Once that door shuts behind me, I reminisce about the moment I wished for when I was ringing his doorbell. There were days when I did not need to see Denue in a suit. All I can think about are those washboard abs of his. And his strong arms, picking me up and wrapping my legs around those washboard abs.
"Okay. So, please make yourself comfortable in the kitchen as I go upstairs to change," he instructs me.
"Thank you,” I tell him, slightly regretful that he’ll be covering up that glorious body of his.
We part ways at the bottom of a pretty cool staircase. Nothing too fancy, which surprises me some, since I know he has expensive, impeccable taste. But everything is very tastefully done.
A few sconces here and there to mark the quality craftmanship.
A dashing red carpet over broad wooden floors.
There are no pictures.
No trophies.
Just trinkets, small decors that would, I think, be telling of his travels around the globe, years before he decided to settle here. In Michigan. To run an ad agency on steroids.
"God, that smells good," I whisper as I walk into the empty kitchen.
Quaint.
If quaint was a fireplace, a sock on the mantle, a wooden picnic table with benches for chairs, oil paintings of a waiting woman, some in charcoal, others with pallet knife, a handsome bureau at the end of a hole in the wall, leading, I hope, not to a dingy basement with hacking tools, but I hope, instead, to a pantry filled with chocolate goodies and a bubbly Jacuzzi; then yes, this would all be very quaint.
One might ask why I chose to dress up for a simple delivery.
The answer is, as simple as can be, that I haven't in weeks.
What would be the point not to?
And no. I did not dress up for him. Sweatpants can just get a little too old.
Or at least that’s what I told myself when I got dressed up to come over here.
I’m peering at the food he had made when he comes back down, except that I hadn’t heard him approaching.
"You like it? It's my grandpa's old Thanksgiving recipe."
"God.” I jump, despite myself. “Why'd you sneak in like that?"
From the hole in the wall that has either Saw or Chocolate Factory vibes I see my boss, all covered up now, sadly. He mouths an apology and throws the towel onto the bubbling pot before leaning his face close to the aroma rising up from it.
"Now I know what you're thinking. A Thanksgiving recipe for Christmas, right?"
"Yes. Why?" I ask.
He smacks his hands together and rubs them, licks his bottom lip and arches his back, puffs out his chest and widens his eyes.
"Because why not? That's why. Come on, wash up and help me set up two plates. We need you fed and watered before sending you home."
Well, who could protest to that? I wonder.
Before long, we’re eating his Thanksgiving meal on Christmas Eve.
"So, how do you keep sane through all this?” he asks me. “Family? Friends?"
"I’ve been doing okay. I think this sauce is amazing, by the way. What's your secret?"
"Salt and good memories."
Laughing, I say, "I see. Well, I talk to my mother a lot. At least twice a week. Not so many of my friends these days can deal with the madness of the season, you know? Debby, my roomy from college, has been a strong pillar for me. I guess she's gone through worse than just staying at home and working on her online MBA."
"Wow. I guess there really are some people out there making use of their time, huh?"
"Oh yeah. I actually feel really lucky we’re still in business when so many have had to close down."
"Oh, it's not luck, honey. We're hard workers at Combey Inc. I have the best team a guy could ask for. Hand delivering me my paperwork. Joining me for dinner and interesting conversation."
He lingers his forked potatoes in the air, letting the last line sink in.
It has been twenty minutes of chatting, sharing, and not once has he brought up our nighttime chats.
Will he?
It's almost dusk, and my plate is almost done.
"What do you miss the most about the Old World?" he asks, wiping his plate with a fresh twirl of pasta.
"That's what we're calling it now?"
"I was a huge fan of The Walking Dead. Still am. I’ve been waiting on this to end so that they can bring it back, at least for the finale. For closure, I suppose. So, yeah, that's what TWD fans call it. Do you miss some of the old things we used to do?"
"I'm still shocked that I'm having dinner with a fanboy."
He chuckles and wets his tongue with wine.
"Like you're not a fangirl, huh?"
"Oh, I am. But... not everyone gets it. Three guesses, and I'll tell you what I miss the most of the 'Old World,' other than new episodes of The Walking Dead."
"Three?" he repeats.
I nod. He lets the fork and knife clutter on the table, wipes his mouth and sighs, then, smiling, he closes his eyes.
“Movie theaters.”
"Oh, close. Not my number one, though."
“Shopping.”
"Damn. On the second try, not to mention."
Awed, and quietly impressed, I breathe in heavily and say, "I miss how we had the option of going anywhere we wanted to. I miss that choice."
"Aw, come on. Do better. I just guessed your favorite fandoms in a snap. Gimme the meat. What do you really miss?"
Denue has this cute tendency to never relent. Once, he told me to get him Rocky Road ice cream. All they had was butterscotch in a family-sized tub, but that wasn’t good enough. I spent an entire day driving around town, and online, searching for his perfect scoop.
I rescind that statement slightly. It's cute until it's not.
Shrugging, I say: "I miss human contact. The way that people interact. The way I feel when I’m with someone I like."
"There we go." His arms widen and rise, and then fall. "Truth, finally."
Both our phones buzz hard, before I can ask him if he can give me a ride home, or call a cab if he'd like, and curiosity gets the better of us.
The gripping col
or of this alert: I've only seen it once before when, an hour later, a hurricane swept my father's house off the ground.
Chapter Four
Nellie
Axel Amador called it his 'little red house on a hill,' My father was not wrong in his description. The finishing touches done over ten years ago had not changed one bit over the years.
The paint still looked as fresh as new. I remember the first time he had told us— me, my mom and her paraplegic mother, my grandmother— that he had bought us a house in the village, away from the noise of the city and so close to nature.
Mom was furious. She had fallen in love with her childhood home in Puerto Rico, by the riveting waters of the Caribbean. She cried a lot, telling us how much she missed her fish and her friends and how much her mother hated the city life.
But with the passage of time, she had gotten so used to sitting outside and watching the birds feed their young that she started to relent. Dad got her a book, in fact, as thick as my pinkie, on bird watching, as a gift for her birthday.
She spent more time outside than in. It gave me more time with my grandma, who listened as I droned on and on about the boys in my high school gym class.
Mom would be on the red porch, in her little red chair, a poncho covering her knees, and her eyes firmly set on the bird pools we had set up weeks before. Her fingers furiously rubbed against paper as she took down notes on the feathers and eating habits and mating choices. The hobby absorbed her beautifully, and Dad was thankful for it.
His time in the Navy for the past twenty years was coming to a close. He had gone into the service immediately after high school, and his rank was enough for him to finally want to settle in and take care of his girls.
It was the liveliest spring of my teenage years. I made a few friends and was quite popular with making t-shirts for the girls in the AV club. I was close to making a stellar sale, actually, that evening, when, on the bordering lawn, walking towards our house on the hill, I noticed the porch was empty.
It was the first time in six weeks that Mom had not waved at me with a plate of fresh sandwiches in hand. I ran up the steps, ignoring the silence in the trees and the spiraling madness of bird clusters in the sky.
"What's wrong, mama?"
She was beside my grandmother, holding her hand in hers, face down. I heard sniffling and felt the sadness in the air. The bag dropped off my knees, and I along with it.
Wind rustled by my face, and the door swung open hard. I couldn't see through the tears clouding my eyes, but the strong scent of powerful coffee and grease made me more at ease, and less frantic.
"Papa, she's gone," I said.
Two heavy boots padded the floor and rushed towards us before stopping by the bed. I could feel him comforting his wife for her loss. Suddenly, an alert came through on his phone. He was showing us but I was too confused to know what was going on.
And then I felt it beneath my knees: the bubbling energy through the wood. I wiped my eyes and got up. He was pulling her away from the bed.
"No, Axel! I can't."
"We have to, Gloria. There's no time."
I was naive about the whole thing. It made no sense for him to pull Mom away and tell her that we had to hurry. Through a grunt of sheer will, he had his two girls pinned in his arms, barreling down for the basement.
In a passing glance, I saw through the kitchen window the sky swirling like a black milkshake. Part of a roof flew by. The latch to the basement shut down tight, and he ordered us to get behind the heavy shelves full of vaults of honey and canned food.
It was the fourteenth of March 2008.
We waited for the screaming wind to ebb, and all through that time, checking our silent phones, all we saw was that constant message. On and on. Over and over. For hours. For a night and a day.
Until it stopped.
***
"Seems like we're going to be here longer than dinner, huh?"
It's no longer a hurricane message. It's a quarantine alert, signed by the governor.
"He really thinks this is going to work?" asks Denue.
I can’t help but think it won’t. Telling a bunch of frustrated people who have hunkered down for weeks to not leave their front doors through Christmas Eve, through Christmas, is asking a bit much. I have a feeling some won’t follow the rules, but that’s nothing new.
"I suppose so."
He laughs and downs the last of his wine.
"Well, I'm glad you're staying with me for the holidays. Some company will be nice for a change."
It's in the way he says it. Calm, orderly and with heavy doses of subtext. I hide my emotions, the shiver running its course on my arms and neck, thinking of all he could mean. I am going to be stuck with this man through Christmas, in his house, in his space. But it’s a happy kind of stuck.
"I would love to stay," I tell him.
"Thank you. There's some work you could help me sort through after tomorrow. But for now, we call it a night. Is that okay?"
"Um, yeah."
Clearly, he can tell I am uneasy. I came with only the parcel that is right now at the top of the bureau at the far edge of the wall.
"Come on. I think I have a few things that might work for you. Don't worry about the plates. I'll be up for a minute."
Denue has fascinating imagery with his tastes. He makes a show of telling me about the paint he used for the hallways, the kind of tools he still has, where he learned his handy skills from, and how he simply loves working with his hands.
By the time we arrive at the first floor's last wide brown door on the right, I still have no idea what will happen between us, but I know that something will. It all feels rushed right now, and I think I need to sit to decipher this.
"Everything you need is in there. I have some drones that can bring the clothes you want here and deliver them in the morning."
So, he hadn’t needed me to bring the package, after all.
But I had already known that.
"Goodnight, Miss Amador. I'll see you in the morning."
And just like that, I am faced by thinly varnished wood, and soon I step through it, locking the door behind me.
Chapter Five
Denue
The hand strikes eight, and the mandated curfew begins.
All through the house, I check for inconsistencies and dust bunnies. I have never needed help to clean this place, and I'm not starting now.
I fluff the pillows and mop the floors. The rooms light up as I vacuum every inch of carpet that I own, and finally, as a last ode to the night, an hour later, I blend in some old 90s music from the tiny black and white kitchen radio with the frothy rush of water from the faucet and swing my hips slightly as I wash the dishes. It's been a while since I hummed.
After logging off my computer, I shut the door and disrobe, promptly taking a light shower before sitting on the bed for a spell.
She's in my house.
It's like terrestrial warmth through the walls reaching out, just thinking about it. On purpose I did not want to bring up the late night chats we have been having to Nellie.
It wouldn't be organic, being that this is the first night she's sleeping over. The first of many nights, I think, if the quarantine is to last more than the holidays.
I assume the Powers That Be don’t want people going out and congregating throughout the holidays. If I’m right, then this current situation could last till New Years’ Eve.
Oh, the possibilities.
Thinking about it causes the most unusual of gleeful expressions to spread across my face as I close my eyes to rest, realizing that tomorrow could be the best Christmas I’ve ever had and that I could be unwrapping the one gift I truly want.
Nellie
Pound for pound, drip for drop, the thought echoes and bounces off the walls of my mind as the hot water trickles down my hairless skin.
“This is happening," I whisper to the steamy clouds around me.
Denue was right. There was everything
a woman could want in this closet, and a robe hanging by the bathroom door too. Beige. The same color as the apron he was wearing when I got here. It’s not my favorite color, but it has quite the luxurious feel on the back of my thighs.
The bathroom looks like it was built with the design of a woman's needs and comforts in mind. A sort of lounge is at the edge of the wall, to the left of the sliding doors. The walls surrounding it are oval, with a lot of window room within, draped closed.
The bed, on the other side, is large and foamy. It has me thinking of the one in a cabin I once rented for a personal staycation when I was in a mistake of a relationship with a guy named Daryl.
Months of busing tables, apprenticing at garages and faking a smile for tips at the local dive bar called for a well-deserved two-week vacation. I had been planning to lose my virginity to him there, but he got drunk and fell asleep. At the time, I was pissed, but now, I’m so glad that that was how it had played out.
I still can’t believe that I’m going to spend Christmas at my boss' house.
It's a raw kind of danger, isn't it?
Tearful suspense.
Not knowing what could happen at any minute.
He could be watching me through the walls right now, peeping as I take off my panties and rub the cold lather all around my shiny skin.
He could be at the door, listening to every sound I make.
He could be in his bed, jerking off.
Or he could be by his phone, hoping I'll text him first and give him an invite into my quarters, perhaps.
The pillows slump around my neck as I dive deep into the bed. My muscles feel tired, and thoughts fire up and around my mind. The light from the screen burns my eyes for a bit before they adjust.
No text.
It's close to ten, and I'm not that sleepy.
Maybe my mom’s still awake.
Could she be?
She's second on my speed dial, right after the pizza place. It rings four times.
