His hands moved over the tomatoes, gently squeezing for firmness. He found two he wanted; ripe and tender. She had always admired his hands. They were small for a man of his size, with stubby fingers and a well-developed callous in the one that held his lacrosse stick. They weren’t pretty hands. But they were very gentle, and decisive of intention. Last week she’d cut her leg: he’d applied ointment and a band-aid, then rested his hand briefly on her knee, as if it had always been there.
Now he watched him make her a sandwich, the fleshy insides of the tomatoes giving his fingers a wet varnish as he sliced through them.
“Where’s Sarah?” she asked, hesitantly.
He shrugged. “She’s got class till nine.”
He was delicately laying fish strips on top of the bread.
He looked up at her, half smiling. It unnerved her how he seemed to look into the well behind her eyes, easily moving past her practiced reserve.
His hands and his eyes, she thought. They weren’t like those of other men she knew.
“Can you do something useful? Slice the onions– thank you.”
She picked up a small shallot and attempted to crush it, to break the skin off more easily.
“No– that’s how you peel garlic. Have you never sliced an onion properly? Hold on a sec.”
He washed his hands, then came up behind her. He slipped his arms under hers and closed his hands over her fingers and the knife.
“Half it, slice vertically, then horizontally, like this.”
He lingered after helping her slice the one half. He moved his hands, crossing his arms over her waist, hugging her from behind. His head rested on her left shoulder. Then he let go, moving back to sprinkle parsley on the sandwiches.
“You know, I remember when we met in first year. The first thing you said to me was that you had lived in the Netherlands for five years, were a diplomat’s son, and had gotten a 32 on your IB score.”
“Don’t I sound like a douchebag.”
“You really did.”
“Probably trying to impress you. How can you remember something I said two years ago?” He paused. “I remember the first thing I thought when I saw you.”
“And?”
“That I’ll tell you one day when you least expect it.”
She crossed her eyes at him.
“You know, even when you do that you’re pretty.”
His phone rang.
“Nope, just making dinner with Lauren.”
Lauren busied herself with washing the cutting board. She scraped off the onion peels into the trash, where she saw an empty condom wrapper. What it was doing in the kitchen she didn’t want to know.
“Okay. Yeah, see you soon.”
He hung up. She didn’t ask.
They ate in silence, which suited them both.
“You good, Lauren?” She smiled up at him. He put his hand on her shoulder, firmly pressing like she was one of those tomatoes.
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Published in The Trinity University Review Vol. CXXII