Emptied the last of the olive oil into the frying pan as she watched from the kitchen table. One foot propped on the seat of the white wicker chair as she clipped pictures out of magazine and glue-stuck them into a big notebook. Water started boiling in the spaghetti pot as I threw a handful of sticks in. Sliced thin layers of garlic onto the pan and a teaspoon of cilantro. The Jesus and Mary Chain were playing on the ipod jukebox and her quiet eyes watched me every few moments as I made my artpiece on the stove. She smiled.
Paul Newman makes great tomato sauce. I like to put a pinch of Tabasco into it then throw it into the frying pan. Stirred and watched. Then was watched, and watched back. Smiled. She tapped her slightly dirty foot to the time of Just Like Honey, the chandelier above her head looked like a glorious halo.
Water boiled too long. Spaghetti came out soggy, useless. The sauce stuck to the pan and turned into a tomato pancake, not enough oil. The smell sets the mood for Italian as I hear her chair grumble as she slid it out along the tile floor. She handed me the hamburger-shaped kitchen phone, smiled and said, “mushroom and olives, extra sauce.” Her hand on my face, she kissed my cheek and strutted into the living room. At her work station, bits and pieces of waxed magazine paper were scattered. Right in the middle was a coupon for the local pizza shop up the street. I turned around to smile but she had already gone. Shower running like guitar distortion.