by Mia Soto
Humble Pie
1 premade graham cracker crust
1 package of tapioca
1 package or Oreos or vanilla wafers
Make the tapioca per the directions. Layer the bottom of the crust with your cookie of choice. Cover with some of the tapioca. Make another layer of cookies. Cover with the remaining pudding. You can leave it out but it cuts better if you refrigerate. Enjoy!
Monday shopping for the Fathers is by far my least favorite chore because the grocery store on Mondays is a zoo, and today I have a headache. I promised one of the Fathers I’d make raspberry truffles. Don’t ask why because they are a royal pain in the ass to make. Right now, I’m trying to find raspberry extract so I don’t have to use liquor. From what I can see, they have every extract under the sun except the most overused flavor of modern culinary invention, the raspberry. As I ponder my options, I hear a voice.
“So you can cook.” Mark’s blue eyes are smiling at me before they go back to my full cart. He starts rummaging through it like a kid in a candy store. He holds up the pot roast I’m making tomorrow with an excited look, “is this for me?” I must look sheepish because he snorts and puts it back down. Then I hear him gasp with the same level of glee as finding an unworn pair of Manolos at the thrift shop. “I love ham!”
“This is pitiful.” I finally recover taking the ham away from him.
“Yeah, it is,” he agrees, still rummaging. “You’ve got me begging for food in the grocery store. I can’t eat Galley’s again. I’m sick of it. And I never thought I’d say that.” We do order from there a lot. “I think I cook more than you do.” I give him a look and he adds, “well at least at home I do.”
“Then why don’t you cook,” I ask.
“Oh no, you don’t get off that easy. When are you going to cook for me?” He holds up the chicken I’m making on Thursday and shakes his head.
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Very,” I smile. A cougar is walking past us with a smile on her lips. She’s obviously listening, and she’s dressed to kill. I wish I look that good now.
Mark steps out of her way and says to her, “I mean m’am she’s a cook, and she’s never cooked for me.” I flush.
“You can come to my house anytime. I’ll cook for you.” She has a sexy voice, and it is laced with open insinuation. She’s wearing a rock that could blind the gods, but that doesn’t seem to be an issue in her world. Mark gives me with a you see look. This is much more in line with the way he’s used to being treated by women. She winks at him and then me and moves on. I guess she’s harmless enough; although, I wouldn’t leave her alone with my guy. She’s about a thousand times more dangerous than some stick thin twenty year old, any day and twice on Sundays.
“What are you doing here?” I ask annoyed now.
“Getting lunch.” He holds up a sandwich from the deli.
“I thought you don’t like their sandwiches.” Another difference between my ex and him, he doesn’t like sandwiches. With Sam all I had to do was slap some meat between two slices of bread and he was a happy man. Mark wants a meal, hence our disconnect.
“I don’t, but we needed a quick lunch because we have a meeting. And now that I know you’re here, I’ll come for lunch more often.”
I shake my head, “Go, I’ll see you later. I have to get to the church and get my dessert going.”
His face visibly falls, “you’re making them dessert?” I grimace. “Should I be jealous of these Fathers?”
“I don’t know Mark, should you? Let’s think about what you get out of me and what they get out of me. I’ll give you a minute to do the math on that.” I turn back to the extracts and totally intend on ignoring him. Even before I turn my head, I can tell he’s grinning as he pulls me in for a decadent kiss.
“Bye baby,” he whispers against my lips before walking away with a smile.
Before I leave the store, I swing back through the produce section and then the fish monger. I’ll make him blackened tilapia with mango salsa and some garden risotto. It’s as easy as it gets in the homemade kitchen, and he’ll never know that. I made it so much when I was married that my ex now hates tilapia. After cooking all day I have no interest in going home and doing it there as well, but for Mark, well, he’s special. I call him once I’m back in my car.
“I’m making dinner.”
“You are?” He sounds excited and is obviously still eating his lunch.
“I am.”
“Did I guilt you into this?” He asks seriously.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he laughs. “See you later.”
At least I’m smiling after we hang up because my head hurts, and I’m in a pretty foul mood for some reason.
***
Sam is also in a mood. He gets into these sometimes. It is part of the reason for my headache and my mood. He might be coming down with something, but I won’t know that until tomorrow. So for now, he’s just miserable. I’m in the kitchen trying to make dinner. I don’t feel like cooking, and if not for Mark, I wouldn’t be. That’s annoying me no little bit. Sam has every one of my pots out on the floor in my teeny tiny kitchen doing his own cooking. He’s switching between that and screaming and hanging on my legs demanding my attention. I’m hop scotching across him when Mark walks in. He’s smiling and that’s no little bit annoying in its way.
“Can I help?” He asks after a huge nerve calming kiss. It does ease my generally pissy mood.
“Yes, take Sam out of here. He’s driving me crazy.”
He does, and they go into Sam’s room to read. Sam loves to read, but he gets bored quickly tonight and runs back out to me. On the way out, he gets distracted by the open laundry area. My fault, I forgot to close the door completely. So he pulls out his second favorite toy other than pots, the Swiffer. He’s banging it around when I say sharply.
“Sam, put that away. You know that’s not a toy.”
Sam starts crying but doesn’t put it away. He knows I’m going to take it away from him, but he also has no intentions of willingly giving it up. He keeps swinging.
“Sam, put it away. Don’t make me come over there.”
He shouts and screams at me, and Sam is loud, so much louder than I ever dreamed a one year old could be. He’s always talking back to me when he gets reprimanded even if I have no clue what he’s saying. Then Mark chimes in.
“Sam,” Mark says with command. “Listen to your mother.”
Sam stops, not in fear. He stops in whatever it is that makes him listen to his father more than he does me. I stop too, but for a totally different reason. Yeah, he’s acting like a brat. But he’s my brat and I’ll do the disciplining. I can feel the blood rushing to my face.
“Don’t do that.” I’m in the kitchen looking at Mark tousle Sam’s hair as they make up.
“What?” Mark looks up surprised.
“Don’t parent him.” Now it’s his turn to be shocked. “If you want a kid to parent, go find some other girl and make babies with her. Leave mine alone.”
“I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
“Believe it. And I can be an even bigger bitch than this.” Just ask my ex.
He’s somewhere between furious and hurt. It’s a golden touch I have at getting men to such a point of anger that they can’t even pin point the emotion running through them. He’s there. It’s never pleasant the first time - just ask all of my exes. He finally settles on fury, grabs up his keys and walks out of the door. He doesn’t slam it like my ex used to. That’s a point in his favor. Men slamming doors always smacks of hissy fit to me and that’s never attractive. Sam is looking at me from the living room. He has that look on his face that he used to get when his father and I would fight. Why didn’t I remember that look when I was playing along with this little game of house? Shit, shit, shit. We’re both hushed, and I’m so upset I can’t even cry. I could run after him, but I don’t. Here ends the magic phase.
***
> This morning makes the morning after my divorce feel like picnics and parasols. A weight is crushing my heart right now. I have moments where I can’t even breathe. The first day after my divorce having the other side of the bed made up was nothing. It was a Thursday, and my ex was never home during the week anyway. For the very short month that Mark has been here in the morning, I’ve grown accustomed to him. I can’t even describe my pain. Sam is coming down with something. His nose is running, and he’s sneezing non stop. I don’t know if it would have changed anything last night. I just wish I had reminded myself over and over that he’s always cranky the day before symptoms show up. I didn’t, and it’s too late to change that now.
It goes without saying Mark hasn’t called. The strangest thing is no tears have dropped from my eyes. I want to cry. Anguish is draped over my shoulder like one of those heavy dentist bibs they make you wear when you’re getting X-rays. My smart ass mouth and bitter tongue have finally done it. I’ve dialed him about a hundred times now, but I keep hanging up before it can even ring. As I’m holding it to dial him again, it rings. I answer quickly and hopefully, and I guess my disappointment is evident in my greeting.
“Oh, hi,” I say. The lump is there, choking me. Why won’t these bloody tears come?
“Well, I’m happy to speak to you too.” Camilo almost sounds offended.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long, bad night.”
“Run?”
“Now?” It’s only ten. I didn’t think Camilo dusted off before noon.
“Yes, now. I miss you. You keep standing me up. What are you doing with yourself?” Other than ruining my life? Not much, really.
“Let me see if my mom can watch Sam.”
“Bring him. I’d like to meet the other man in your life.” Oh, Camilo, if you only knew.
“No, he’s sick and anyway, it’s hard to run with him. Those running strollers suck.”
“Whatever you say,” he sounds disappointed. “Are you going to keep me in your closet forever?” What is he talking about? Are we dating outside of my knowledge?
“Camilo, please don’t confuse me right now.”
“My Margo.” He never calls me Margo, and that compassionate strain in his voice is also unnerving. “I’ll meet you there in half hour. If Mom can’t watch Sam, bring him. That’s an order.” Latinos, so cocksure sometimes you could just slap them or kiss them.
Mom watches Sam as I get to run out my sadness. We’re stretching after, and Camilo is sitting on the grass looking up at me with a gaze I refuse to even try to decipher.
“Come sit with me while I paint. I need my muse.”
“I have to cook, Camilo.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I have to do a little shopping - so like one thirty, two.”
“So it’s twelve. You have time.”
“I have to shower.”
“Shower here,” he points at his building.
“I don’t have anything to change into.”
“Perfect,” he smiles wickedly and takes my hand to lead me across Bayshore, effectively ending the argument. In his apartment he calls loudly, “Yolanda?” A small Spanish lady comes around the corner with a big smile. He speaks the rest in Spanish, “Do me a favor. Go to the mall and buy me an outfit – a complete outfit – for a woman size…” He looks at me.
“Eight,” I say. I’m probably a solid six right now because of the running and extracurricular nighttime activities Mark and I have been engaging in. But eight is like my forgotten lover. I always end up back there. So I say again to his raised eyebrow, “eight.”
“Now come with me.” He takes my hand and leads me back to his studio, stopping only to grab us some waters. He shows me the new work. My image is not even in the landscape. It’s bright, really bright, almost like looking at the sun. I can’t tell if I like it yet. He paints for awhile, and I watch him.
“You’re good at this,” I say appreciatively
“Even gigolos need hobbies,” he smiles without looking at me.
“Can’t spend all day in bed, huh?”
“Well, if you are there, gorgeous, I could.” He paints and I watch some more. It’s relaxing watching his brush stroke the colors into his vision.
“I need to shower.” I finally say standing up.
“Use mine.” He gets up to show me. I must give him a look because he laughs. “I’m having work done on the other two. And you’re not showering in the maid’s quarters.” He’s such a lovable snob. “I assume you want to shower?”
“Yes, shower,” I say as he leads me over to his bathroom and leaves me with a pile of lush, what can only be ridiculously expensive, towels and a thick terry cloth robe. He’s like a hotel, only one that includes hot sex. I wonder how many other girls have gotten the full court treatment. He has one of those car wash showers. I don’t know what they are called, but water is hitting me from every direction, and I may never leave it.
A little bit of sadness creeps up, but I squelch it. Mark has every right to never call me, and I’m too much of a coward to call him. I finally get out and dry off and slip into that awesome robe. All of Camilo’s toiletries are set out on a flat crystal tray. I pick up his after shave. It has his spicy, sexy scent. I love men who smell good. Mark smells good. He is one of the few gringos I know who use a scent. When I go out into the bedroom, Camilo is lounged across the bed. He’s eyeing me like a tiger on the hunt.
“Should I be nervous here?” I try to be flip, but he’s already pulling me in, slipping his hands between the robe’s flaps to open it. His hands are warm roaming my body as he smiles.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about. I’ll be gentle,” he says before his mouth overtakes mine, and I let it. He lifts me up, and my legs wrap naturally around his waist. We’re on the bed before my reality and decency catch up with my lust.
“Wait, Camilo,” I say in a daze. “I think I have a boyfriend.”
He pulls away slightly with a confused look. “What do you mean, you think? You do or you don’t.”
This is true. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it?”
“Well, it’s confused.”
“Is there someone that you have committed to?”
I think about this, “umm no, technically, no.”
“Then it doesn’t sound like you have a boyfriend.” Yeah it didn’t sound that way to me either. If a friend said the same thing to me, I’d draw the same conclusions as Camilo. But clarity is never as pristine when peering through the kaleidoscope of self.
“It’s just we had a fight.” He is kissing me again in highly strategic places, and his hand is resting on a very sensitive area between my legs. “You could help me, you know.”
“I’m trying to,” he says between kisses.
“I mean help me figure out my life.”
He raises his head and looks into my eyes with all seriousness. “Do I look like some stupid, sensitive gringo who will talk to you and help you discover your feelings for another man? If he was dumb enough to let you go, then I am perfectly willing to take advantage of the opportunity.” The Latin man is singularly unconscionable when he wants something. His hand starts that intoxicating massage, and my legs spread involuntarily. We continue along a very dangerous path until waves and waves of guilt override me, and I sit up.
“I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“So you do love him,” he finally says.
“I don’t know.” My lips are pursed as I look out across the sparkling bay. His view is truly spectacular. “I’m confused.” That golf ball sized lump is back making my voice crack, but still no tears. Why won’t they come and be done with and let me move on?
Camilo sits up and sweeps aside my wet hair to kiss my nape and shoulders. “Don’t cry gorgeous. You have no idea how that hurts me.” He nuzzles my neck, and I rest my head on his.
“I’m sorry Camilo. I should have told you, but I liked our game. I would never want to hurt you.” I led him on
. He led me on. And we did each other no favors. “You were so good playing the role of gigolo.” I try to be flip.
He’s kissing me again. “I’ll survive gorgeous. There are plenty of other bees in the hive.” His mouth caresses mine with enough gusto that if he tilts me only an inch back he will get exactly what he wants and then some. “Even if I can’t have the queen bee.”
***
I’m dressed and looking in Camilo’s mirror. This man is nuts or his maid decided to have some fun spending her boss’ money. I say this because I’m in a designer outfit that must have cost a minimum of three thousand dollars, not Pesos. From the Prada sandals to the five hundred dollar t-shirt, I look like I belong on the cover of Star or something as the “other” unknown woman in a celebrity scandal. I walk out, and he smiles appreciatively.
“This is a bit much. I thought she’d get me some sweats from Old Navy.”
“What’s that?” He asks in all seriousness.
I laugh, “It’s nothing you should ever know.”
He drives me to my car, and I don’t even look up this time as he’s driving. It’s terrifying. We sit for a minute in silence even though I’m kind of late.
“I don’t love you - you know,” he assures me with heated eyes.
“Yeah, I know.” My smile is beaming and so is his.
“As long as that’s all clear,” he says reaching over to bring my face to his for a long, hot kiss. Again, if we were still in that bed bad things would happen. “Now get out of my car before you make me forget I’m a gentleman.” I smile at his frustration, and he kisses me again. “Friday?” He asks about running. I smile and nod. He always listens to what I say. He knows I can’t run before then. How didn’t I see what was going on between he and I? I did. I do. I chose to ignore it for the fun part, the part that fit my life. Selfish is hardly a descriptive enough adjective for me lately, selfish and self absorbed.
Chapter 12
Chicken Soup for the Soul
1 pkg of chicken quarters, skinned, bone in
2 carrots, chopped in chunks
2 stalks of celery, minced
1 small sweet onion, minced