30
Lisa
I will have to cancel our date—there is no way I can get organized in time. Why did I procrastinate all weekend?
I lie in bed and think up a list of decent reasons to pull out.
I’m sick. The go-to easiest excuse. But what if he still insists on coming over to make me soup? Gastro! I’ll tell him it’s
a stomach bug. No one plays Florence Nightingale when bodily functions are involved. But I don’t want his mental image of
me to be entirely digestive. Next.
I got called into work. An urgent dog wash is needed. Urgent? I bury my hands in my face. My brain is chasing its tail. Next.
My cat died. That’s pretty good, actually! He doesn’t know that I don’t have a cat, and it’s not like he’d expect to see the
dead body . . . would he? But maybe he’d think it was strange if I had no photos of my pet when he does eventually come over.
I jump onto my iPad, choose a half-decent shot of me, hit the Hollywood filter, then slap on a picture of the least scary-looking cat from Google Images.
I hit print and stick it on the fridge with a Hello Kitty magnet, although a Goodbye Kitty magnet would have been more appropriate in this case.
I step back to admire my handiwork. It’s not good, I look like a supervillain who’s gone too heavy on the lip fillers.
I glance at the time and jump out of my skin. I’ve been looking at freaking felines for over two hours!
It’s too late to cancel now; he’ll be here in thirty minutes. I somehow have to clean and make myself look decent. I’m going
to have to “garbage-bag” it, my term for the rapid-tidy. I turn my Mary Poppins figurine to face the wall; she doesn’t need
to see this.
Grabbing a bin bag, I race around the room and chuck in everything from the floor. Odd socks, a pile of letters—oh, there’s
my earrings I’ve been looking for! Well, one earring.
“Hey, Siri, what’s the time?”
“Eleven forty a.m.,” she mumbles from the garbage bag.
I fish out the phone and sprint to the bathroom, which also looks like it’s been ransacked. What are the chances he’ll need
to use the toilet while he’s here? What if I just don’t give him any water?
I take in my sweaty face and messy hair and google “one-minute transformative makeup application guide” on YouTube, but even
that will take too long. I grab the can of deodorant and liberally spray my armpits, groin and neck. The scent rams up my
nostrils . . . Where have I smelled that before? I take a second look at the can. Bloody hell! It’s Glen 20 Country Scent
air freshener! Now I will remind my date of the smell that attempts to mask a number two.
The doorbell rings. The garbage bag of crap is still on the floor. Scanning the room for a place to hide the evidence, I catch
my reflection in the oven door . . . perfect! My cooking skills aren’t great, yet even I know you don’t need an oven for laksa.
It’s a tight squeeze, but I manage to squish the bag inside before I race to let Frank in.
“Hello,” I say, willing my pores to keep their sweat to themselves.
“Hi, Lisa.” He leans down for a kiss on the cheek, then pulls back slightly. “Oooh. That’s a nice . . . perfume. It kind of
smells familiar.” His nose twitches as if he’s trying to place it.
If my face was pink before, it must be crimson now.
“Sort of florally?” He tilts his head, blinking a little too much.
“Oh! It’s the first time I’ve worn it, actually. It’s called . . . Chanel No. 20. Please come in.”
“This is a nice place,” he says, setting the shopping bags on the countertop.
I reach into the cupboard and take out a bottle of wine I ordered a couple of days ago. “Would you like a drink? It’s cab
sav.”
He leans in for a closer look at the gold label. His eyebrows lift. “Hey, this is from that amazing vineyard I was telling
you about . . . Did you get it especially for me?”
I shrug, but my smile gives me away.
“That’s so kind, thank you!”
Taking two wineglasses from the cabinet, my hand brushes the frame beneath, Beau’s lovely face greeting whoever walks into
my life.
“Now, please take a seat and relax,” Frank says, pouring the wine. “I don’t want you to lift a finger.”
“Oh, I don’t mind helping. I’m not a great cook, but I do know how to peel a carrot.” I wink. Then overthink. Does he think
I’m making a sexual innuendo? Is “peeling a carrot” what they’re calling it these days?
He lets out a soft laugh and places his hand gently on my shoulder. His touch is brief but warm. “You have looked after so
many people. Now let me look after you.”
“Okay.” I reluctantly take a seat on the couch.
“So, do you have any hobbies, Lisa?” he asks, as the sizzle of garlic wafts from the kitchen.
Does mindlessly binge-watching Netflix on my phone in bed count?
“I love TV and movies. Oh, and craft. I like making things for people.”
“Awesome. Oh, I forgot to ask, are you one of the coriander soap people?”
“Coriander soap people . . . ?” I giggle. “Are they a cult?”
“Some people have a gene that makes coriander taste like soap.”
“Ohhh . . . no, not me. I love the stuff, but Griff detests it. Does that mean soap tastes like coriander for those people?”
He tosses his head back and laughs. “Maybe we need to do an experiment?”
I picture myself using a fancy cheese grater to shave some flakes of soap onto Griff’s dinner.
Frank and I chat for some time about our favorite music, shows and films, the smell from the kitchen becoming increasingly
intoxicating. Just when I think my tastebuds can’t hold out any longer, the laksa is ready.
The soup is as delightful as the conversation. He’s so easy to talk to. I tell him about my work, about Beau and Griff, and
he shares what it was like caring for his dad. I don’t interrupt; I just sit with him in it.
When his voice falters, I touch his hand without thinking. Finally, I feel like there is someone who truly understands me.
And maybe, just maybe, he feels the same.
My mobile rings. “Sorry, it’s the nursing home, so I better answer.”
“No worries, I’ll start on dessert!”
I step into the bedroom. It’s Dayna the nurse, asking about some new pants for Griff, as his brown cords have gone missing.
I tell her I’ll buy some when I’m next at the shops, then I take the chance to freshen up in the ensuite.
“Oh dear!” A yell comes from the kitchen.
“Is everything okay in there?” It’s a rhetorical question—my nose already knows it’s not.
Bitter smoke wafts into the bathroom. The smoke alarm springs to life as the haze reaches the ceiling. I wave it away to see
Frank, his oven-mittened hands holding something black in front of him. My mouth goes dry.
Oh. My. God. It’s the garbage bag! And Frank is looking right into it, like it’s a portal to my soul. I might as well be naked.
My legs spring to life, and I grab the half-melted plastic from his hands, ignoring how hot it is.
He stands there like a stunned mullet. “I’m, ah . . . so sorry. I turned on the oven to heat up the apple crumble I brought.
Didn’t realize there was something in there!”
A fork and a pair of old beige high-waisted undies from Kmart choose that precise moment to fall from the melted hole at the bottom of the bag with the last of my dignity.
He stares at them. I’m not sure what’s wider, his eyes or the big rips in their elastic waistband.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. And for a split second, I hope that the pink wee is the sign of a terrible disease
that could take me in an instant. Preferably this instant.
He’s going to leave for sure, says Ursula.
But instead, he turns off the smoke alarm (no stepladder needed), picks up the fallen items, and smiles. “Hmmm. I bet there’s
an entertaining story here.” The twinkle trapped in his eyes soon turns into a glorious laugh. It’s like an eraser, rubbing
out all of my embarrassment. He opens a window, and my horror dissipates with the smoke. “Why don’t we have dessert now, and
you can tell me? Perhaps I’ll heat it in the microwave—unless it’s . . . otherwise occupied?” he asks with a wink.
“Yep, all good. I already nuked the bag with my socks and hairbrush yesterday!” I wink back and open the door, relieved to
find there isn’t so much as a cold cup of coffee in there.
He grins, and I flush with fresh heat but not the embarrassed kind this time.
His apple crumble doesn’t disappoint; the cinnamon even helps mask some of the burnt-plastic smell.
“So, the oven bag . . . what’s the story?” He scrapes the last bit of cream from his plate.
I fiddle with my serviette, searching my mind for a sane excuse for why anyone would have a garbage bag full of crap in their
oven. Ursula tells me to lie. But you know what? I’m exhausted, and I’ve run out of excuses, so I tell her where to stick
it.
“The short version is, I have ADHD,” I say, picking a stray crumb from my lip.
He pauses.
“I know what you’re thinking—that it’s just for hyperactive boys . . . ?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I was only thinking how much courage it took to tell me.” That throws me. “Tell me more about what it means.”
I give him the quick rundown of my neuro-sparkly brain and how it affects my life. My ability to hyperfocus, my impulsivity,
my sensitivity to rejection, my chaos. “I’ve had people walk away,” I admit. “Or say it’s an excuse. That I’m lazy.”
“Well,” he says gently, “they must’ve been absolute bumfaces.”
I snort.
“Everyone’s got their own mess,” he adds. “It’s just shaped differently. The trick is finding someone who doesn’t mind sweeping
up beside you.”
“So, what’s your mess?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
He leans back, thoughtful. “I’ve always been better with older people, never really clicked with my own age group.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugs. “I was the youngest of three and the tall kid who hated basketball and beer—not a winning combo in high school.
Most people assumed I was boring or stuck-up. I just didn’t know how to join in.” He gives a small self-deprecating laugh
and looks down, tracing a line on the table with his finger.
“And now?”
“Now I play to octogenarians, and I’m in heaven!”
I laugh. “Sounds like you found your tribe.”
“I totally have! God, I love it there. Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong decade.” He stares wistfully out the window
then looks back at me. “So I have to ask . . . what was in the bag?”
I bury my face in my hands and groan. “Gosh, who even knows? Obviously my least sexy pair of underpants!”
“Well,” he says, dramatically stroking his chin, “I dunno about that. I reckon beige is a pretty underestimated color when
it comes to sexy.” He glances in the direction of the crumpled plastic.
I laugh again. “So, are you a clean freak? Griff is . . . or was.”
“Well, I reckon I’m in between. I’m not at garbage bag in the oven level, but I’m also not the kind to have a nervous breakdown
if there’s an empty glass or two on the bedside table.”
“Or five?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Five?!”
I nod sheepishly.
“You don’t have to hide any of yourself, Lisa. I’m here for the whole show, not just the polished parts.” He nudges his glasses
further up his nose, his eyes meeting mine.
“The whole show, hey?” It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows, and his to blush. I think of the bedroom carpeted with clothes; I’m not quite ready
to go that far in any sense right now. “So, you . . . don’t think I’m weird or . . . disgusting?”
He hesitates then reaches over the table to take my hand, sending electricity down my arm. “You are the furthest thing from
disgusting I’ve ever seen. You are so thoughtful. If anyone is disgusting, it’s me. Not many women want to go out with a seven-foot
loner.”
“Frank,” I say, lifting his chin gently with my finger, “you are lovely, every inch of you.”
A deep shade of maroon creeps its way up his neck.
“You’ve been so kind,” I tell him. “If it’s okay, I’d sort of like to take things slow. It’s been a while for me.”
He sighs. “I’m relieved you’ve said that. To be honest, it’s been years since I’ve been in a relationship too. Many women
don’t give me a second glance when they see how tall I am. Most can’t even look at my eyes, so they don’t bother to look at
my heart.”
I place my hand on his. “That’s their loss.”
For a moment we just sit there, the hum of the fridge filling the silence. Then he clears his throat and stands, insisting
on doing the dishes. I let him, taking the opportunity to slip away to use the bathroom.
Please let it be beetroot, I plead with the toilet-roll holder, as I flush the pink wee and bad thoughts from my mind.
When I return to the kitchen, Frank is singing “My Way.” His voice doesn’t have Sinatra’s polish, but there’s something raw
and radiant in it that holds my attention.
I start to whistle along, and his face brightens. He watches me for a moment.
“What?” I ask, suddenly aware of the space between us.
“You’re the first person I’ve met who whistles like they mean it,” he says, a softness in his voice. “This was so nice. I
was wondering if you’d want to”—he shifts his weight—“get a drink after work tomorrow, maybe, around seven?”
My heart soars with a foreign sensation: reciprocated feelings. “I’d love to.”
“Great, I’ll text you in the morning.” He hesitates, biting his lip. “Would it . . . would it be okay if I kissed you, Lisa?”
I nod, my heart skipping—a nervous flutter that lifts me slightly out of myself.
He bends down too fast and bumps his forehead against mine. I laugh under my breath, and his mouth curves into a shy smile.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his nose brushing mine. This time when he kisses me, it’s slower, surer. A little awkward, a little breathless,
and completely perfect.
A proper kiss. A reciprocated kiss. A kiss that starts a relationship, not ends one.