Love (Or Something Like It)

It tastes like cilantro. Pungent, heady. (Revolting.) Plus, it's slightly lumpy and an awful green shade. (How much spinach did he add?) He's watching me chew with careful nonchalance, armed with a spatula in his left hand as if he wielded one every day of his life. (Yeah, right.)

"How is it?"

I try to swallow but it feels like a rock. (Terrible.) His scrutiny is uncomfortable and I can feel myself start to sweat. To avoid his gaze, I shift my focus to the kitchen counter behind him instead. (Half open cookbook, block of cheese, screwdriver.) I swallow.

"Why the screwdriver?"

He cocks his head, momentarily confused, until he catches my meaning.

"Couldn't open the blender lid." (You've gotta be kidding me.)

I go over to the unplugged blender sitting on the counter and press a button. The lid pops open.

"Oh." (Dumbass engineers.) "So…how does it taste?"

I look at him. (Spinach leaves sticking to forearms, flour smudge on cheek, careful nonchalance.)

"Not bad."