By four on Sunday, I had butter on one sleeve and twenty minutes to become the sort of woman who could invite someone over without making a production of it.
I had said tea. A very relaxed word. Nobody could accuse tea of having intentions.
The woman coming over had already seen my bedroom. She had not seen me trying to turn three pears into evidence that I was good company in daylight. This felt considerably more exposing.
Outside, Madrid was having a dry, windy October afternoon. The kitchen window was open a few centimetres. Every time the door knocked against its frame, I looked up. I wanted her to arrive. I also needed her to be late enough for the cake to cool, my face to cool, and the butter to stop announcing itself on my sleeve.
I changed my shirt. Then changed back. The first one fell open a little when I leaned forward, which had suddenly become a point in its favour.
A presentable slice
I had bought the pears because of their colour. Yellow with brown freckles, excellent in a bowl for about six hours before requiring a decision. At the shop I had imagined slicing one onto a plate. Once home, I had somehow committed to a cake.
This happens to me with ingredients. I buy something small and assemble a support team.
The cake smelled wonderful. That made what happened next more irritating.
I ran a knife around the edge, put a plate over the tin and turned the whole arrangement upside down with the confidence of a woman who had watched someone else do this once.
Nothing.
I tapped the base. Then hit it hard enough to make the plate rattle. Two warm pieces fell out. Most of the pear-covered top stayed inside.
The doorbell rang while I was considering whether extra crockery might restore its dignity.
She looked at my sleeve, then the plate.
“Am I early?”
“For the reconstruction, yes.”
She laughed and kissed me. I still had the oven glove on one hand. With the other I caught her by the waist and kept her there longer than a greeting required. Her mouth was cool from outside. I forgot the plate until she reached past me and moved it away from the edge.
I had spent the last twenty minutes trying to look as though I hadn't been waiting for that.
Two spoons
She took off her shoes by the door. I went back to the kitchen, suddenly very aware of the short distance between us. I could hear her walking behind me. I could not have said what I was looking for in the cupboard.
“Tea?” I asked.
“Was there ever going to be tea?”
“There is equipment.”
I showed her the kettle. A strong defence.
She broke off a piece of cake and ate it. The edges were dark and sticky, the pear soft, with a little salt under all the butter. She closed her eyes for a second. I watched her mouth instead of asking whether it was good.
“Don't cut away the best part,” she said when I reached for the knife.
I put it down. I took two teaspoons from the drawer and carried the tin to the walnut table by the window.
I had set out two chairs opposite each other. She sat in one; I moved mine beside her. Its foot scraped loudly across the floor. So much for subtlety.
The sun was on her forearm. A loose awning snapped outside. We ate from the tin, disputing a particularly dark corner, and she told me about a lunch she had escaped before coffee. I heard most of it. Then her knee rested against mine and I lost the name of the person she was complaining about.
“You aren't listening.”
“I'm listening selectively.”
“To what?”
I put my spoon down and kissed her. This time nobody was holding crockery.
The kettle could wait
When she pulled back, she had a crumb at the corner of her mouth. I brushed it off with my thumb. She caught my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist. It was a small thing. It went straight through me.
“Come here,” I said, although she could hardly have been closer to my chair.
We left the tin on the table and moved to the sofa. She sat with her legs across mine, one hand resting under the loose edge of my shirt. I liked the weight of her there. I liked that when I touched the back of her neck, she stopped halfway through a sentence.
Then she looked towards the kitchen.
“I thought you didn't do domestic.”
“I own a whisk. Let's not get carried away.”
I had been afraid that inviting her into my Sunday would bring a whole arrangement in after her: regular lunches, assumed nights, somebody asking where I was going. Now she was here, warm against me, asking for none of it. I had moved the chair. I had asked her to come closer. I wanted her in this particular afternoon, and I was tired of pretending the cake had invited her.
“Stay a bit,” I said.
“How long is a bit?”
I drew her towards me by the open collar of her shirt. She laughed before she kissed me.
The light moved off the table while we stayed on the sofa. Her cardigan slipped onto the floor. At some point we remembered the kettle; neither of us got up.
Later, she went barefoot to the kitchen and came back with the tin. I had saved the dark corner for myself. She knew perfectly well.
She sat down against me, put her feet back across my lap and held out a spoonful.
I ate it from her spoon. Then I took the tin.
Desire had made me generous. It hadn't made me stupid.