Page 46
Story: Art of Convenience
I bite my cheek and feign annoyance. “They are,” I give him a pointed look and begin rolling my next dough ball. “But along with not having a comal, you also don’t have a tortilla press. So forgive me if some of my tortillas come out looking more like the state of Hawaii.”
His full lips purse together and he nods as he sits casually on the stool, losing his tie. His deft fingers tug on the silk fabric and when his lips turn up into a smirk I know I’ve been caught staring. I clear my throat and reach for a decanter on the counter. I hold it up in a silent offer. “Please,” he says.
I wipe my hands on a tea towel before grabbing one of the crystal scotch glasses and sit it in front of him. As I pour his drink I’m surprised to notice my steady heartbeat. I went back to my early morning yoga class this morning so I wouldn’t have to be here when Miles got back for his morning coffee. With the weird way he ran off on me at the pier the other day, I didn’t want to get into it. I knew it would end up being another round-about conversation of how I want him to let me in, and just when I think we’re getting somewhere, he’ll shut down again.
I go back to rolling out my tortillas and out of habit I ask about his day. “It was no less eventful than any other day. I had to go to a client’s office and strong-arm them into taking a deal they thought they never would, but to everyone’s surprise—but my own—they did.” I drop the rolling pin, staring unblinkingly at him. “What?” he asks.
“I’m—I’m just surprised.”
“That I was able to close the deal? I don’t know if anyone’s told you this yet, but you’re married to the best closer in the city, Camila.”
I feel my smile take over my face as I shake my head, focusing back on rolling out my dough. “No, I mean…I’m surprised you told me about your day.” When he doesn’t respond I peer up at him, the column of his throat bobs up and down as takes a drink. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve likely spooked him and ruined this nice moment. With my dough rolled out, I move to turn on the stove, letting it heat up before I cook the tortillas.
“When I was a kid my mom used to listen to a lot of Laura Pausini,” he says. “She would start a pasta sauce at eight in the morning and let it cook all day. If I focus hard enough I can still see her walking back and forth from the kitchen to her art studio, stirring the sauce with a wooden spoon in one hand and holding her paintbrush like a cigarette in the other.” Miles points to the stove where my tortilla has turned into a tostada.
“Shit,” I say, pulling it off the pan. I lower the heat, adding another one and then turn my attention back to him. His forearms rest on the island and he spins the near empty glass around.
“You say I never tell you anything. And maybe you're right. But typically when people meet with the intention of dating they show a glamourized bullshit version of themselves. Maybe it’s because our situation is different—but I’ve never felt like I needed to pretend to be someone I’m not with you.”
There's a lightness in my chest when it hits me how much Miles actually says without having to say anything at all. He could tell me a hundred and one stories about his childhood and although I would welcome them, they don’t tell me what I already know. I know that he’s a workaholic who’s made sure to be home early every night to have dinner with me. I know that when he saw me talking to Steven Whats-his-name at the fundraiser gala he was jealous. And I know that he doesn’t talk about work—or anything really—very freely. He keeps most things bottled inside him and doesn’t seem to trust easily, but any conversation that begins to get the even tiniest bit difficult, he pauses waiting for me—trusting that I’ll continue. So while he might not say things out loud, he’s still saying them all the same.
I’m pulled from my thoughts by a blistering pain burning up my arm. “FUCK!” I scream, pulling my hand away from where my fingers were just sizzling on the pan. Before I get the chance to assess what’s happened, Miles is up and in front of me.
“Let me see,” he says, reaching behind me, turning off the stove.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” I say, holding my hand unable to even look at it.
“Camila.” I take a deep breath and hold my hand out towards him. My eyes water as I try to hold back my tears but the pain is still so hot. He holds my wrist gently inspecting and I notice the tipsof my first two fingers are red and blistered. “Let’s go take care of this.” His voice is thick and heavy.
“Really, I’m okay,” I say.
“Please.” My heart melts quicker than my skin on the skillet at his pleading eyes. I nod my head and let him guide me down the hall towards his room.
Miles’s room is so completely him in every way. It smells like him, spicy and warm, but also clean. His large bed faces more floor-to-ceiling windows and hanging above his bed is another palm leaf painting. I’d bet my measly life savings it’s another one of his mother’s paintings. He pushes open the door to his bathroom, going straight for a cabinet under the sink, and motions for me to sit up on the counter. The burning sensation is still there but my racing heart begins to slow when Miles’s fingers fumble around a first aid kid. I place my good hand on his chest and his movements still. He closes his eyes, pulling in a deep breath, and his heart beats frantic beneath my palm. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him flustered.
“This won’t feel good but I’ll try to be gentle,” he says, turning on the water.
He holds my palm firmly but gently at the same time as he sticks my fingers under the running water. He’s right, it doesn’t feel good but I let the water run over me while I focus on him. The deep crease between his brows, the pained expression on his face, the tightness in his jaw. I stare at him for so long when I look back at the counter, he’s cleaning up the trash from putting ointment and some band-aids on.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to thank me for covering up a burn.”
“I meant thank you for letting me in.” He bracesthe weight of himself on the counter next to me.
“You think I let you in?”
I bring my hand up to his back, where his shoulders are hunched over. “You don’t do it in a very common way—but yeah, in your way, I think you do.”
His lips twitch slightly in a way that tells me he’ll either say something to surprise me or he’ll shut down on me again. And even though I’ve decided it’s easier to hide my feelings for him and be around him than it is to avoid him, I can’t stand the thought of him pulling away again right now. So I run my fingers across his hair, combing away the piece that’s fallen down his forehead, and slide off the counter. I exit his room and he doesn’t follow.
Camila
I’m pullinga flowy oversized T-shirt over my head when my phone vibrates on the dresser, lighting up with a picture of me and Taylor in cowboy hats from a trip we took to Banff two summers ago.
“What are you doing?” I squint my face at the phone screen as if it would help me see her better.
“I’m…h-heading…up…Br-B-Bradford,” she pants, completely out of breath and although her face is in front of the camera behind her, all I see is the sky. “Oh fuck. I gotta sit down.”
His full lips purse together and he nods as he sits casually on the stool, losing his tie. His deft fingers tug on the silk fabric and when his lips turn up into a smirk I know I’ve been caught staring. I clear my throat and reach for a decanter on the counter. I hold it up in a silent offer. “Please,” he says.
I wipe my hands on a tea towel before grabbing one of the crystal scotch glasses and sit it in front of him. As I pour his drink I’m surprised to notice my steady heartbeat. I went back to my early morning yoga class this morning so I wouldn’t have to be here when Miles got back for his morning coffee. With the weird way he ran off on me at the pier the other day, I didn’t want to get into it. I knew it would end up being another round-about conversation of how I want him to let me in, and just when I think we’re getting somewhere, he’ll shut down again.
I go back to rolling out my tortillas and out of habit I ask about his day. “It was no less eventful than any other day. I had to go to a client’s office and strong-arm them into taking a deal they thought they never would, but to everyone’s surprise—but my own—they did.” I drop the rolling pin, staring unblinkingly at him. “What?” he asks.
“I’m—I’m just surprised.”
“That I was able to close the deal? I don’t know if anyone’s told you this yet, but you’re married to the best closer in the city, Camila.”
I feel my smile take over my face as I shake my head, focusing back on rolling out my dough. “No, I mean…I’m surprised you told me about your day.” When he doesn’t respond I peer up at him, the column of his throat bobs up and down as takes a drink. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve likely spooked him and ruined this nice moment. With my dough rolled out, I move to turn on the stove, letting it heat up before I cook the tortillas.
“When I was a kid my mom used to listen to a lot of Laura Pausini,” he says. “She would start a pasta sauce at eight in the morning and let it cook all day. If I focus hard enough I can still see her walking back and forth from the kitchen to her art studio, stirring the sauce with a wooden spoon in one hand and holding her paintbrush like a cigarette in the other.” Miles points to the stove where my tortilla has turned into a tostada.
“Shit,” I say, pulling it off the pan. I lower the heat, adding another one and then turn my attention back to him. His forearms rest on the island and he spins the near empty glass around.
“You say I never tell you anything. And maybe you're right. But typically when people meet with the intention of dating they show a glamourized bullshit version of themselves. Maybe it’s because our situation is different—but I’ve never felt like I needed to pretend to be someone I’m not with you.”
There's a lightness in my chest when it hits me how much Miles actually says without having to say anything at all. He could tell me a hundred and one stories about his childhood and although I would welcome them, they don’t tell me what I already know. I know that he’s a workaholic who’s made sure to be home early every night to have dinner with me. I know that when he saw me talking to Steven Whats-his-name at the fundraiser gala he was jealous. And I know that he doesn’t talk about work—or anything really—very freely. He keeps most things bottled inside him and doesn’t seem to trust easily, but any conversation that begins to get the even tiniest bit difficult, he pauses waiting for me—trusting that I’ll continue. So while he might not say things out loud, he’s still saying them all the same.
I’m pulled from my thoughts by a blistering pain burning up my arm. “FUCK!” I scream, pulling my hand away from where my fingers were just sizzling on the pan. Before I get the chance to assess what’s happened, Miles is up and in front of me.
“Let me see,” he says, reaching behind me, turning off the stove.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” I say, holding my hand unable to even look at it.
“Camila.” I take a deep breath and hold my hand out towards him. My eyes water as I try to hold back my tears but the pain is still so hot. He holds my wrist gently inspecting and I notice the tipsof my first two fingers are red and blistered. “Let’s go take care of this.” His voice is thick and heavy.
“Really, I’m okay,” I say.
“Please.” My heart melts quicker than my skin on the skillet at his pleading eyes. I nod my head and let him guide me down the hall towards his room.
Miles’s room is so completely him in every way. It smells like him, spicy and warm, but also clean. His large bed faces more floor-to-ceiling windows and hanging above his bed is another palm leaf painting. I’d bet my measly life savings it’s another one of his mother’s paintings. He pushes open the door to his bathroom, going straight for a cabinet under the sink, and motions for me to sit up on the counter. The burning sensation is still there but my racing heart begins to slow when Miles’s fingers fumble around a first aid kid. I place my good hand on his chest and his movements still. He closes his eyes, pulling in a deep breath, and his heart beats frantic beneath my palm. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him flustered.
“This won’t feel good but I’ll try to be gentle,” he says, turning on the water.
He holds my palm firmly but gently at the same time as he sticks my fingers under the running water. He’s right, it doesn’t feel good but I let the water run over me while I focus on him. The deep crease between his brows, the pained expression on his face, the tightness in his jaw. I stare at him for so long when I look back at the counter, he’s cleaning up the trash from putting ointment and some band-aids on.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to thank me for covering up a burn.”
“I meant thank you for letting me in.” He bracesthe weight of himself on the counter next to me.
“You think I let you in?”
I bring my hand up to his back, where his shoulders are hunched over. “You don’t do it in a very common way—but yeah, in your way, I think you do.”
His lips twitch slightly in a way that tells me he’ll either say something to surprise me or he’ll shut down on me again. And even though I’ve decided it’s easier to hide my feelings for him and be around him than it is to avoid him, I can’t stand the thought of him pulling away again right now. So I run my fingers across his hair, combing away the piece that’s fallen down his forehead, and slide off the counter. I exit his room and he doesn’t follow.
Camila
I’m pullinga flowy oversized T-shirt over my head when my phone vibrates on the dresser, lighting up with a picture of me and Taylor in cowboy hats from a trip we took to Banff two summers ago.
“What are you doing?” I squint my face at the phone screen as if it would help me see her better.
“I’m…h-heading…up…Br-B-Bradford,” she pants, completely out of breath and although her face is in front of the camera behind her, all I see is the sky. “Oh fuck. I gotta sit down.”
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