Painting Her

by Natalie Knight

  It's a shame, I whisper, shaking my head again.

  But I can't have any distractions in my life right now.

  The clock is ticking.

  And I have a restaurant to run.

  Nicole

  He's making enough noise to wake a bear. No one could sleep through that. How stupid does he think I am?

  I can feel the bed shift as he slides out from the comforter. I hear him shuffling around the room for his clothes. He's literally on his hands and knees fumbling his way through my dark bedroom. I stifle a laugh. I mean, he nearly knocks over my nightstand.

  How clumsy can one man be?

  And even my cat seems to be annoyed with him.

  For a moment, I think about saying something. Letting him know that I'm awake. Maybe even flipping the light on so he can find his things.

  But if he's the kind of man who thinks it's okay to slip off after getting me in bed with him without so much as saying a good bye, or a thank you for a good night—then as far as I'm concerned, he doesn't deserve to leave here easy.

  Besides, it doesn't matter. Not really.

  Even if I did say something, I'm sure he'd rattle off some fake nicety, and give me some bullshit excuse as to why he has to leave here in a big hurry, and would probably say something along the lines of, it isn't you, it's me. I'll let him think he's slipping out of here undetected, if that's what he wants.

  So I lie there, pretending to be asleep.

  It both feels like both the dumbest and smartest choice I've ever made … all at the same time.

  Then I hear him say something under his breath, "It's a shame."

  My mind reels. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  Is it a shame he's leaving? Is he considering getting back into this bed?

  Or is he ashamed for coming here in the first place and being with me?

  As I listen to him leave, and hear the front door click open and then shut behind him, the silence of his absence weighs heavy on me.

  There's no more wondering.

  He's gone, and he didn't bother sticking around.

  The silence is definitive.

  Why the hell did I sleep with an asshole like Palmer? I'm mentally kicking myself for being so week. But if I'm honest, there's something about him that's magnetic. I'm drawn to him like ice cream is to cake, or like a strawberry is to chocolate. When he's around, it's like the most natural thing in the world, and even though there's a small voice in the back of my mind that throws warnings and alarm bells, my body moves toward him without hesitation. I even cooked him my grandmother's secret recipe!

  I slap my hand down on the mattress in frustration, bunching the bed sheets beneath me. It's clear that he's an asshole … but he's a hot asshole, and I've just had some of the best sex of my life.

  That chiseled body. Those eyes. That smile. And those hands.

  I feel my pulse flutter just thinking about him, and I grow wet.

  He was a God in bed. I can feel my pussy begin to tingle as I think about how amazing sex is with Palmer—the way he moves with purpose, without hesitation, and the way he's confident and calculated and knows what he wants. I slowly part my legs under the bed sheets. I grab my breasts in my hands, and pinch my nipples between my fingers. This immediately sends my body into overdrive, and I close my eyes, and part my mouth, letting out an involuntary sigh. I picture Palmer touching my breasts, not me. I imagine it's his strong hands grabbing my nipples, and kneading the soft flesh as if it were something prized.

  I slowly move my hands down lower, across my abdomen, and hover just above my pelvic bone before making the plunge even deeper.

  I can’t believe I'm doing this. One minute I'm thinking about how much I regret sleeping with an asshole like Palmer, and then next I'm fantasizing about him.

  Screw it, I think to myself as I spread my legs further. A little fantasizing never hurt anyone. My mind focuses on Palmer's body. Biting down on my lower lip, I slide my hand down between my thighs, pressing the tip of my fingers against my pussy. I stifle a moan, and then decide to go all the way; I slide my hand further and then press down on my clit.

  Pleasure electrifies my nerve endings all at once, and my eyes roll back as I imagine Palmer back here in my bed, that mysterious smile dancing on his lips. I’d make him a hundred more secret recipes for him to be really here again. I’d just reach for his cock, feeling it harden against my eager fingers…

  Oh, God, I can’t stop myself now. I slide my fingers on my wet pussy and, parting my inner lips, I slide my middle finger inside. I curl it upward like a hook, driving it all the way in and only stopping when I find my G-spot. I press hard against it while, at the same time, I use my thumb to stroke my clit.

  I close my eyes as my brain starts to hum with an electricity all its own. I imagine the chiseled chest that Palmer hides under his tailored suits and fancy chef coats, and how I'd like to explore the ridges of his abs with my tongue … and with my tongue on his abs, I'd only explore further down between his legs.

  I can already imagine his enormous cock sliding in and out of me, taking my pussy …

  “Oh, God…” I moan, my quivering voice echoing throughout the darkness of my apartment as I start moving my hand faster. I slide one more finger inside my pussy and start flicking my wrist fast, my fingers moving in and out of me at a furious pace. I pretend they’re his cock, stretching me wide and driving me insane with a newfound hunger.

  I arch my back, moaning loud enough for my cat to dart off—Whiskers must think I've lost my mind, but I don't care, this is too good. I take my free hand to my breasts, squeezing them eagerly. Images of Palmer's naked body flash behind my eyes. I shut them tight and a burning need to feel his body on mine consumes me.

  In this moment, it's the only thing that matters.

  “Oh, fuck,” I groan, my inner walls tightening around my fingers, and without warning I moan through grit teeth as a sudden spasm takes over my body. Every muscle fiber begins to twitch erratically, and I have no choice but to ride that wave.

  When everything subsides and I'm able to open my eyes, I take a deep breath and up at the ceiling.

  Having Palmer in my bed tonight was fun, but it was also a mistake.

  He's a much better fantasy than he is a reality.

  Palmer

  I've messed up more dishes in a single afternoon than I have in my entire professional career—too much salt, too little salt, too much flame, not enough flame.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I can't get Nicole out of my mind. Everywhere I turn, I'm reminded of her. I'll never be able to look at another pasta dish without remembering that night at her apartment.

  And just when I think the day can't get any worse, it does. So much worse.

  I'm standing in front of a hot skillet, searing a fresh Tuna steak and getting ready to squeeze just the right amount of lemon on it when Brit bursts through the kitchen.

  "Have you seen this?" she says. Her eyes tell me she's wild with frustration.

  I look down and see her cellphone in her hand. The browser is open on her screen, and it appears to be a published article.

  "Doesn't look familiar," I say, shaking my head.

  "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but read this."

  By the look on her face, I know it can't be good. I grab her phone and begin scrolling.

  "Among the dishes offered by Chef Palmer's Pearl is a dry fish akin to prison food. I was too timid to try some items on the menu for fear of developing digestive problems, and that's putting it mildly. The risotto was inedible—having taken on the consistency and flavor of what I can only describe as wallpaper paste."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Oh, it gets better," Brit says. "Keep going."

  I continue reading it aloud.

  "I wouldn't wish for a natural disaster to strike anyone's restaurant, but if it did, no one would have to eat the food offered by The Pearl on Park, and that wouldn't be a bad thing. There literally isn't a single re
deeming dish on the menu, unless you count the glass of ice water that accompanied my food. Chef Palmer's dishes are where hopes and dreams go to die. Hot mush, gummy waste, and lukewarm puddles are all apt descriptions for the food I tasted, which is a travesty. Even my salad looked as if someone squeezed an entire bottle of cheap dressing on it just to watch every piece of lettuce drown in its own misery. The steak was so overcooked that it resembled the grey innards of an unidentifiable animal."

  My voice is now beginning to shake and I tighten one fist into a ball.

  "That's going too fucking far—I know I make the best fucking steaks!"

  "This is bullshit," Brit says. "These are all lies. It's as if he's purposely trying to ruin you."

  I look back down and continue reading the review. If I've read this far, I might as well finish.

  "Chef Palmer's restaurant is a bungled and lack-luster attempt at bringing another fine dining destination to New York City. Even the foods that might deserve mild praise, like the grilled asparagus spears, were under seasoned and could be procured for cheaper if you simply went to a nearby deli. As far as the potato soup goes … well, let me just say that it was as thin, murky, and unappetizing as dirty dishwater. As a kid, I was once dared to eat a worm freshly dug up from the school playground. I recoiled, and got so far as to place its wriggling body on my tongue before spitting it out. In retrospect, I'd gladly eat that worm before placing another ounce of Chef Palmer's food in my mouth. In summary: Eat at The Pearl on Park at your own risk."

  I knew Percy Whitman was an asshole, but I didn't realize he could sink this low. This is possibly the worst review I've ever read. What the hell does Percy have against me?

  "Can we survive this review?" Brit asks. She's visibly worried, and I don't blame her, but if it's one thing about me—I'm not a quitter. I have the resolve of a stubborn bull.

  "Of course we can," I say. "We're going to keep making high-quality food, and win customers over one meal at a time."

  "Uh—Chef—" she says, tapping me on the arm.

  "Leave the worrying to me. I have everything under—"

  "No, I mean, the Tuna," she says, pointing to the pan. "I think it's on fire."

  "Oh fuck," I say, removing the skillet from the heat. The Tuna is ruined. I was so caught up in reading Percy's review that I completely forgot about the dish that I was working on.

  "Shit, this was supposed to be for table 7," I say, as a thin line of sweat zigzags down my temple. I can't believe how many meals I've fucked up today.

  First it was Nicole, and now it's Percy. I just can't focus. Even though we're busy, the best thing I could do right now is probably remove myself from this kitchen.

  I need to do something about all of this.

  I need to get my head on straight. If I don't, I'll be helping everything Percy said come true, and I can't afford for that to happen.

  "Brit, I need you to do me a favor," I say.

  "Anything Chef."

  "I need to hand over all kitchen operations to you today."

  "To me? Are you sure? It's so busy, and—"

  I cut her off. "Look at me. There's no one I trust more."

  With that, I unbutton my Chef coat, toss it to the side, and grab my car keys.

  There's only one thing that can help me right now.

  I need to find Nicole.

  Nicole

  I remove from the mop from the bucket, and press it against the tiled floor. Leaning on the handle, I push the fibers of the mop back and forth, and watch as their grey strands leave foamy streaks of soap in scattered patterns.

  Sometimes I like to imagine that I'm a painter wielding a giant mop brush—painting the place in wild streaks.

  I'm a firm believer that a restaurant's safety and success hinges on how organized and clean a place is. And judging by the amount of soap I'm using, this floor is going to be clean enough to eat off of.

  Not that I'd suggest that, but just saying …

  As I push the mop, I perform a mental checklist—disinfect prep surfaces, wipe down the splash walls, clean the grill, pour a drain cleaner in the floor drain, run the hood filters through the dishwasher—check, check, check.

  I'm making good progress, and even though it's late, I kind of like how quiet and solitary this place is after hours—when the guests are gone and everyone else is back at home. It's when I do my best thinking.

  The quiet. The monotonous movements of cleaning. I can just let my mind wander.

  Unfortunately, my mind keeps wandering back to the same thing: Palmer.

  It's a tortuous loop.

  His charisma. The way he can effortlessly keep a conversation. The way he can make me laugh. The way his eyes pierce me and reel me in. And of course what he can do in bed …

  I shake my head. No. Not again.

  I can't be thinking about him. It was one night, and it was a mistake.

  A big mistake.

  But I'd be lying if I said he wasn't constantly on my mind.

  I let out a sigh and push the mop back into the bucket, rinsing it of soap and the day's grime.

  I decide that the only way I'm going to stop my brain from overthinking is to listen to some music. I grab my cell phone, and press my music-streaming app.

  Let's see … I think I need to channel my grandmother right now. She always knew how to cheer my up and keep me motivated, and she's truly the reason why I'm in the restaurant business.

  I scroll through my music options and stop on Doris Day. My grandmother's favorite singer. I play a song and immediately start dancing around the kitchen.

  It transforms me.

  "Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future's not ours to see, que sera, sera."

  I spin on my toes and reach my arms out, as if I'm giving the world a giant hug. I'm sure I look ridiculous right now, but I don't even care.

  I'm loving the music. It lifts me. And it feels as if my grandmother is here dancing with me right now.

  "When I grew up and fell in love, I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead, will we have rainbows, day after day, here's what my sweetheart said, que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future's not ours to see …"

  Why is it that every song turns to love?

  If I didn't love this song so much, I'd change it, but whatever, I'm just gonna continue to dance this out.

  I spin, and twirl, and yes, I even picture myself doing all of this in the strong, muscular arms of Palmer.

  I know … I know … I just can't help it. I don't know what's wrong with me.

  It's probably for the best that I'm never going to see him gain.

  Sex with him is too good. Is that even a thing? Sex as too good? I probably sound insane. Regardless, I'm going to go on record and say it is. I'm living proof.

  The chorus of the song comes back on, and in one final move, I run across the kitchen and do a small leap in the air—just like the way Baby jumps into the arms of Johnny Castle in the movie Dirty Dancing … except, it's not like the movie at all and I don't land in a man's arms—I land in the dirty mop water.

  Well, that's not exactly accurate. I bump against it and the brown water splashes into my shoes.

  There goes my mood.

  I can feel my pulse kick in agitation.

  I reach for a towel and try to soak up as much of the water as possible, but now my feet are damp and cold, and I don't want to be here anymore.

  I want to go home, and soak in a bath, and pet Whiskers.

  I want to pour myself a glass of wine, and wear seat pants with an elastic band, and maybe even pig out on pizza and binge watch Netflix.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow, and then take my ponytail out, letting my hair fall down and cascade around my shoulders.

  I start flipping off all the light switches and reach for my keys when I hear something that makes me stop. It sounds like a low rumble … and it sounds like it's coming from right outside of my restaurant. I take a peek out of the front window and see a motorcycle p
arked at the curb. A man is unstrapping his helmet.

  Who in the hell is parking here at this hour? Doesn't he see the place is closed, and—

  But I once the helmet comes off, I recognize the man immediately, and my heart beats so fast I feel dizzy.

  It's a total body reaction and nothing I can do or say will make my heart mellow out.

  The man is Palmer.

  I greet him at the door and unlock it for him.

  I go to open my mouth, but not a single word will come out, and before I can get a word in he places both of his hands on my shoulders and pushes me up against the wall. Then, he leans down and his lips crash against mine.

  It's the best kiss of my life.

  Nicole

  This is happening.

  It’s not a dream, and it isn’t a hallucination. No, this is really happening.

  With my mouth pressed against his, our tongues dance around one another in a frenzy, and my hands go down from his chest to his waist. I pull him into me, eager to have him—to make him have me—but he stops me, yanking on my hair.

  “I had to see you,” he breathes out, his voice brimming with desire. No; it’s more than desire or lust. It’s a burning need, one that forces him to relinquish all control.

  I’ve never felt something quite like this; it’s a desire so strong, so fierce that now I understand how some women can make the rashest decisions… I'm just glad it’s Palmer here with me. Somehow I know that with him it will be alright…

  “Why?” I ask him, my voice quivering as I lock my eyes on his.

  “Because I had to,” he replies, offering me a thin smile. “I had to.”

  Our lips touch again, the sweet flavor of his mouth making my skin prickle. I reach with my tongue for his and, finding it, dance in slow gentle circles around it.

  His hands go to my lower back, his long thin fingers brushing against my skin. His touch is gentle and delicate and, behind closed eyes, I can hear how it makes my heart flutter inside my chest.