12 #2
I shower to Bizarrap, quick exfoliation, vanilla-scented lotion—very good-girl, Sephora-counter vibe—hair in a low bun, center part, lashes loaded.
I slip into a loose black dress: no belly outline, no squeezing, my go-to for effortless mystery.
Panties? Nope. Pure logistics: what if halfway through dinner we need to, you know, give the festivities some fresh air? Better be ready.
A few drops of perfume behind my ears, as if that could mask the shaky knees I get just thinking about what’s about to go down in the open air.
I’m hoping (or afraid, who knows) that none of those nosy neighbors across the way figure out there’s something spicier cooking here than their diet Spanish tortilla.
The buzzer rings, I sprint to the door, delivery guy in a helmet, quick handoff, tip in coins I keep in a Minions mug, thanks, enjoy, door closed.
I pull the soy sauce out of the bag, plate the pretty sushi on Ikea dishes, line up the maki rolls, cross the chopsticks, set out hot sauce in a little jar because Nat loves watching me cry just a little—she says it gives me a repentant-saint face—and I swallow a laugh because I’ve never been a saint, and repentant even less.
My phone buzzes.
Nat: I’m downstairs
Me: Come up ??
I catch my reflection in the dark window, give myself a tiny pep gesture, readjust the dress, run a hand along my neck in case I’ve got a mark—nothing, clean—and repeat to myself: stick to your role, obey, enjoy; don’t crack jokes at the worst moment; and if your knees shake, lean on the table—it can take it, it’s solid wood.
And now I open the door and ta-da: the blonde who haunts me and gives me my best orgasms. Prettier than ever, more immaculate. With that hair that today isn’t shellacked within an inch of its life.
She walks in, gives the place a quick once-over, and when her eyes land on the little table on the terrace, she gives me one of those sideways looks that make you wonder if she’s going to kiss you or ask for your registration and proof of insurance.
“Did you cook?” she asks, sniffing the air with the subtlety of a bloodhound trained to find truffles or hidden lovers. She’s got a nose I’d kill for in my selfies.
And I want to tell her yes, of course, that I gave my life putting together a five-star feast: flambés, spherifications, and a speech to the ingredients. But my face sold me out in record time. If there were an Olympics for kitchen impostors, I’d be on the wall of “the ones who didn’t even try.”
“Yes. I mean… no. Well… to be honest, I… ummm… ordered!” I stammer at the end, like I’ve just confessed a crime against world gastronomy. I stare down the tray of maki as if anyone might believe I made them with my own little hands and a YouTube degree in sushi.
Nat walks up to the table, lifts one of the lids.
“Smells like effort,” she declares in that low voice that gives me goosebumps—and other things too. “Restaurant effort. Specifically, the Japanese place on the corner that does two-for-one on Tuesdays.”
“I can’t cook,” I admit, lowering my voice.
“I can’t even peel an onion. If you try to get me to do a basic sauté, I’ll end up with the cops at the door and a fire extinguisher in the other hand.
My crowning culinary achievement is using the microwave without setting off the spark of doom.
And the sushi is the good stuff, smartass. ”
She doesn’t say anything. And that silence is worse than if she chewed me out for trying to poison her with my culinary “art.” I can just see her replaying all the red flags she’s clocked in me and adding “useless in the kitchen” to the list.
"Seriously," I keep going, big mouth switched on. "I put on Rachael Ray and get hooked, then MasterChef and I think I’ve got it, and I still end up cutting myself peeling a cucumber. In the kitchen I’m a national security threat.
I never had a decent kitchen, or a mother-teacher.
At the group home it was the you-eat-what-you-get recipe, and outside it was survival with a microwave and canned crap from the grocery store—college-kid menu. "
I don’t plan it; it just comes out hard. I end up kind of naked—emotionally, okay; the other kind we’ll see—with the feeling I just did a striptease of the soul without even nice stockings on.
Nat sits. And not a drop of charity in her eyes, I swear, which is a relief, because pity always kills me. No, she’s actually curious about my bargain-basement life. Instead of the “poor you” face, she just watches me. I can handle curiosity. Spare me the pity, or I’ll end up crying, and what for?
"And after that?"
I play it cool, shrug, but my leg starts doing a nervous tap dance under the table.
"You already know the deal with paying rent, right? It’s not like I make a living busting my ass at country-club weddings—though, with this face, if I went for it I might end up loaded."
The air gets thick. Not even this Ribera del Duero fixes the nerves. Even the wine is looking at me like, "Girl, you’re playing with fire—ease up." But it is what it is. I keep going; the neighborhood playbook always works—if they’re going to catch you, at least make it a show.
"And you, where do you get all that mystery, huh? You gonna finally tell me your last name? Where do you live? Are you one of those people who puts pineapple on pizza just to torpedo a relationship, or are you just into virtue-signaling about recycling cardboard? I mean, I don’t even know if you have a pet or if you collect exes’ heads in the basement!
Sure, you tie me up and wreck me, but afterward you don’t say a word. "
Point is, between what she won’t say and what I make up, I could write our whole joint biography. Go on, Nat, keep asking—I can keep up.
Her voice goes glassy.
"I just wanted to know something about you."
"Well, congrats, jackpot," I breathe. "I’m a walking disaster with tits, old traumas, crap sleep, weird humor, a playlist that jumps from Bad Gyal to Camarón without warning, and zero kitchen skills, but I kiss in a way that sticks with you and I’ve got well-trained hands—and I even obey when you ask, boss. "
Her eyes spark a notch, and all of me lights up. I crack myself up with the bit and still sit up straight, committed to the bit.
Nat, calm as ever, goes fishing a maki with her chopsticks, like I didn’t just drop the special edition of my life in her lap.
She dips it in soy with the elegance of a Japanese it girl and brings it to her mouth.
She chews slow, savoring the hedonism, the tragedy, and the sticky rice, and meanwhile she looks at me. Really looks.
"It’s good," she says, perfectly at ease. "Good taste."
Good taste, she says. Yeah, sure—good taste in sushi, because if we’re going to review my taste in women, the one who’s turned my life upside down? That one’s more in the suicidal range.
"Eat," she says, and I nod, grab a maki, dip it just enough—no soy-sauce disaster—and bring it to my mouth, slow, no fuss, so she can see I can keep a rhythm.
"You’re going to tell me about the group home," she adds, calm, unhurried, with that quiet she uses to pry me open. And I nod, because I actually want to, because it’s heavy to carry, and because it turns me on when she takes it off me.
I tell her the basics and whatever comes out—ages, hard beds, sad breakfasts, people coming and going, the feeling of being temporary everywhere.
I’m not fishing for pity; I give data. I crack jokes, do live-action GIFs, laugh about my tricks for sneaking into the movies, how good I was at lying in the high school office, the day I learned to make bank transfers with zero money—an unaccredited school of life. I keep the worst part to myself.
She doesn’t blink; she just chews, sips, listens. I’m loose, and every so often a spark shoots through my head telling me to run, but I stay, because I want to, because this game between us saves me from my habit of blowing everything up at minute three.
Anyway, the dinner pantomime keeps going, the wine keeps flowing, the sushi goes down, I don’t even chew anymore—I’m swallowing out of pure anxiety.
Her confessions stay at the bare minimum: zero, zip.
But the looks—Jesus. I won’t sleep tonight even if I down an Ambien cocktail.
Under the table our legs declare a strike against distance; her knee presses, my thigh answers, her nails scratch, I laugh under my breath and play coy, and even so my body’s surrendered, my head taking screenshots of every touch.
I tell myself “enough” and at the same time drag my chair closer, and then I catch myself nudging for her shoe with my toe, very subtle, very dainty, a soccer mom with a PhD in sin.
Until finally the universe and every saint takes pity on me, and dinner, fuck, is OVER. Thank God, because I’m so wound up and so brimming with want that if I get near a candle, I’ll explode.
I stand up, and that’s that. Shame has left without looking back, and I’m here, burning, no panties and no brakes.
I don’t ask permission: I climb onto Nat, straddling her, going all in, knees dug into her hips and my heart at a thousand.
My treacherous dress signs a pact with the devil and opens at the least convenient place.
She grabs my waist—bam—pulls me into her, puts me where she wants me, and I vibrate with no batteries or chargers, just pure vice and bad habits.
“Here?” she whispers. “Does it turn you on that we might be seen?”
Honey, the Amazon driver turns me on when he catches me in a Target bathrobe with a messy bun, so with open sky, a terrace, and the neighbor smoking on the balcony across the way, this feels like live TV with ratings through the roof.
“Honestly? Yeah,” I play it cocky, because the drama sustains me. “Let the whole building know. I don’t care.”