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When you had volunteered to cook this evening, throwing it o..
🕑 Added 2023-04-07 22:13:01 +0000 UTC When you had volunteered to cook this evening, throwing it out casually on our way back from getting coffee, it had felt like a little bit of an offering. It had felt intimate, somehow; domestic in a way that made my heart skid pleasantly along in my chest. Sort of like how watching you amble up the stairs to your apartment, heavy and slow and oddly graceful, had made my heart race, too. Sort of like how just being next to you makes my heart pound. Sort of like how right now, watching you casually chopping onions, is enough to have me practically beside myself. Fuck. You look beautiful, standing there in your little galley kitchen. You’re looking down at the counter, concentrating on chopping that damn onion like it’s your job, the knife in your hand moving so quickly that I think vaguely that maybe I should be concerned that you might lose a finger. You’re looking down, and it makes your double chin look enormous, a soft ring of pudge that, combined with your very full cheeks, makes your handsome face a perfect circle. And your belly— Fuck. Your belly is resting heavily on the counter, several inches of t-shirt-covered tummy flab spilling onto the counter. You don’t have a choice; it just sort of flops there, filling up the available space. I swallow hard and remind myself not to stare. “What should I do?” I ask, coughing to hide the way my voice cracks a little, like I’m a teenager again. You peer up at me from under the little curtain of loose hair falling over your forehead. “Put some water on to boil?” You jerk your chin toward the cabinet beside you. “The pot is in there.” I smile. “All you want me to do is boil water?” “I’ve eaten your cooking. You boil everything. You should have a natural aptitude.” You’re looking back down at your work, but I can hear the smile in your voice. I step behind you, moving around you to reach into the cabinet as instructed, and my chest brushes against your broad back. It’s unavoidable— in your narrow kitchen, you take up most of the available space— and it makes me inhale so hard I end up coughing. You feel soft, so fucking soft, and even in the .3 seconds it takes for me to slide past you, I can feel the way your plush love handles wrap around your back, the extra weight you carry on your midsection marching all the way around your torso and forming rolls of soft, plush fat that ring your entire frame. Jesus Christ. Why does it matter to me so much? Why is it all I can think about? Why is it all I can feel? I try a few more times to offer my assistance, but you mostly wave me off, and I find myself standing in the corner of the kitchen, just watching you work. You dice chicken thighs, your knife again moving with a fearful kind of quickness. You sauté onions and garlic, throwing them into a skillet with oil and butter and spices, while penne boils on the back burner. You grate cheese, measure cups of heavy cream, and throw additional chunks of butter into the pan for no apparent reason that I can discern beyond whim. It’s sort of mesmerizing, watching you cook, and I am struck by the quiet confidence of your movements. You hand me a plate of buttery, indulgent-looking pasta, drenched in cream sauce and tossed with chicken and mushrooms. That’s all you, shooting me a cocky smile. “Told you I could cook.” “I didn’t think you couldn’t,” I say, my eyes darting down to your belly before I can stop them. You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything, just waddle out of the kitchen and past the little table by the window, flopping down in your customary corner of the couch and flipping on the tv, settling on a documentary about sharks. You rest your plate on the arm of the sofa, a perfectly reasonable thing to do, but I wonder perversely if you prop it on your belly when you’re alone. You certainly could, if you wanted to. It’s big enough. The conversation over dinner slips seamlessly from past to present, from reminiscing about the old times to harmless gossip about new drama surfacing. It feels easy; comfortable between us, so much so that I don’t even hesitate when you scrape your plate clean. I just reach out and grab it, heading to the kitchen and refilling it without asking. I put my own plate in the sink and grab two beers on my way back. When I hold the plate out for you, there’s a slight hesitation, just long enough for me to hold my breath, but you eventually reach out and take it. “Thanks,” you say. I shrug it off, and this time I sit down a little closer to you. Not quite next to you — still far enough away for propriety — but closer. When you finish your second plate, I reach out again, wordlessly, and you hand it over. The fourth time it happens, you shake your head. “I’m good, thanks.” “You sure?” I mean for it to come out casually, but the words feel like they catch in my throat somehow, suddenly feeling weightier than they should be. You raise one wide shoulder a few inches. “Not exactly wasting away over here.” “Thank god,” I mumble, and then snatch your plate and make a procedure out of rinsing and stacking it in the sink, desperate for something to do with my hands. (part 3)
