kitchens and love
“I just want to move to a one-bedroom in the Lower East Side!” It was a declaration, “It will be cheaper. . . and nicer.”
“No, it won’t.” It didn’t make any sense. “How would a one-bedroom be cheaper than your two-bedroom with a room mate?”
“You don’t move into a one-bedroom by yourself.” he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it while we waited to cross Avenue A.
“It will be so nice. We’ll have things like. . . counterspace. And. . . enough room to have people over for dinner.”
“And a table?”
“And a table. And it will have a big refrigerator and a set of good knives and a real oven and. . . a blender.”
The boy knows how to make me moan with pleasure, whispering kitchen fantasies in my ear, and I’ve decided I’d also like a sewing machine. But our imaginary apartment was getting kind of girly, so I asked him:
“But what about you? What do you want?”
“Hmm. A big, flatscreen tv. . . .”
“Aaaand. . . a paper towel holder.”
For real. The boy wants an apartment with a paper towel holder.
“What if I bought a washer and dryer?”
I gasped, and laughed at myself:
“My first thought was, I’d marry you.”
So he said he’d get me that and I wouldn’t have to worry about his choosing an ugly ring, and later he said he’d cover them in Swarovski crystals.
If things didn’t make so much sense, they wouldn’t make any sense at all.