Cougar Alert, Day Everything Went Wrong

Mark inserted his key into the antique front doorknob, twisted and gave a firm push.  He was storm traffic-delayed getting home and still steamed at the clown that cut him off, for the second time, at his exit off the Interstate.

The door slammed open and toppled a potted plant sitting on a chair an inch too close to the door.  Peat moss, vermiculite and Scotts Miracle Grow showered the terracotta in the foyer.

Darn, what the heck else is going to spoil this date?

He only had thirty minutes to set the table for Cynthia.  The time was bad enough, but now he had to cleanup the potting soil mess, too.

He'd known Cynthia since she joined the mortgage office about a year ago.  They talked a lot, had lunch several times, but this was their first official date.

He hung his coat over the foyer chair, slipped out of his soaked loafers and vaulted up the split-entry’s oak stairs three at a time.  The water dripping off his coat was forming mud.  I’ll clean that up before she gets here.

First; big copper bottom pot for the spaghetti; skillet for the hamburg; cutting board and cleaver for the onion; two cans of stuff for the sauce, you know, crushed tomatoes etc... whatever; and bakery fresh garlic bread.  He piled everything on the kitchen island next to the cook-top and turned on the wall oven.

Four hours last night put the kitchen, dining room and sunken living room in order.  He had Pledged the furniture and swept the wood floors in three rooms assuming they would be inspected.  Anything without a place he had dumped in the bedroom.

Humm— I wonder if that was a mistake?

Naw.  No chance for anything tonight.  Too soon.  Just a dinner date, right?

He sliced and chopped up the onion on the block board squinting but not protecting his eyes adequately.  He browned the onion in an old encrusted (seasoned they said) skillet his grandmother left him.  When he opened the trash door under the sink to toss out the onion’s outer skins, a reminder of last night’s meal greeted his nose.

What the heck?  Why didn’t I put the fish paper in the outside trash?

He moved the trash can out to the balcony and tried to close the curtains.  They always hung-up and had to be pulled shut manually.

Place settings!  Where did I put those burlap mats?  And the Mexican dishes?

He collected everything.  Good thing it’s just for two of us tonight.  He didn’t own three or more of any matching kitchen utensils.

Wine?  Yeah, Rose’.  Ain’t very red, but ain’t white either... what the heck should you have with spaghetti anyway?

The water was boiling.  He dumped in the box of Prince spaghetti.  Darn, too long.  Should I bust it up?

The electric can opener grinding open the sauce condiments reminded him he needed to make an appointment to have his truck starter fixed.  I’ll do that tomorrow.

High heat to brown the hamburger then down to moderate for the rest of the sauce.  Angus 91% vapors mingled and blunted the now kitchen wide salmon odor.

He sniffed his pits.  Do I have time to take a bath?  Why not?

Garlic bread into the oven and Mark into the shower.

The doorbell chimed when he stepped out of the master bathroom.

“I hear yeah!”  She’s ten minutes early.  “Be there in a second!”

He pulled on a pair of sweats, a robe and slippers, and was about to go down the stairs when he saw the potting mix all over the floor at the door.

Dang!  Forgot about that.  The broom was at the other end of the house, so he grabbed his wet towel and made a quick swipe at the mess.

“I’m getting wet!” came through the door.

“Sorry, sorry.”  He made a path wide enough to get to the stairs and opened the door.

Cynthia was wearing a coat but no hat and the rain had made her hair droop.  “I’ll take that”, she said and took the towel out of his hands.

“No, no don’t.  I’m wiping up a mess with it.”

The dark mud from the floor was almost hidden in the black towel, it was a good thing she hesitated.

“I’ll get you another.”

“You’re in your pajamas?  Already?  How well do you think you know me?”

“Just taking a shower.  Believe me.  I’ll dress.”

He hung her coat next to his, then showed her up the stairs to the tall stools at the island.  Handing her a dish towel to dry her hair he said, “Give me a minute to dress.”

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“A door down the hall next to the bedroom.”

It took him less than five minutes to put on presentable clothes.  He was almost done when Cynthia said, “Something’s burning.”

Oh, darn, the garlic bread!

Garlic flavored smoke was billowing from the oven.

Cynthia said, “You warm bread at 450 degrees?”

“Oh, a little too high?”

“A bit, don’t you think?”

Mark used tongs to pull the blazing bread out of the oven and toss it in the can out on the balcony.

Cynthia said, “That’d be a good view if it wasn’t for the land fill off to the right.”

“It wasn’t there when I bought the place.”

“You’ve lived here for over ten years?”

“Yes.  Off and on for all my life.  Bought it from my grandparent’s estate.”

Mark continued, “I tried to prevent the town dump’s move here.  We only lost by a few votes.”

“I remember that bond fight.  I voted to approve... sorry.”

Cynthia looked at the sauce bubbling on the stove and said, “That’s tomato based?  I’m allergic to tomatoes.”

“Oh— well— I have butter... I think,” opening the fridge door and peering through the disorganization.  “Margarine okay?”

“Fine, I guess, if it actually tastes like butter.”

Mark pulled the ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter' out to show her.

“That’d work.  Could you use it too?  The fumes.”

Mark took the skillet off the stove and put it out on the balcony next to the trash cam.  He pulled the curtains shut again.

Cynthia looked down toward the living room and said, “You have curtains to the patio but no drapes for the living room?  I haven’t seen a house this spartan since my 2nd ex’s place last year.”

“Grandma had them.  They got ruined during the renovations and I haven’t replaced them yet.”

“Not much privacy.”

“No visitors or traffic out this way to worry about.”

“But, you own the house?  No Mortgage?” Cynthia said.

“It's been three years.  Paid it off before the crash in oh-eight.”

“That’s nice.  You’re lucky.”

“Luck didn’t have that much to do with it.  It’s called planning.  The only luck I had was when they put the dump next door.  All bad.”

“But, that may be changing now that you’ve met me.”





Pages:      5

Words:  1,137