Precise For A Reason

by Lara Wilson

Rose perched on a barstool sipping on a glass of perfectly chilled chablis watching with amusement as her boyfriend drew a knife--no, not a knife, one of those flat icing spreading things--across a measuring cup filled with breadcrumbs. The excess crumbs fell to a neatly spread piece of parchment paper and were immediately whisked into the trash.

For three years Tim had been making her dinner every Sunday night, and every time his behavior still made her want to giggle her head off. He measured, he examined, he trimmed, he cleaned. It was just so Tim.

And the food was delicious, too, because of course he wouldn't flub anything up. Since Rose could burn water, she was perfectly happy to let Tim have the kitchen to himself. He allowed her to sit across the room and watch quietly.

Which amused her, too. Usually she'd make comments just to try to throw him off, and he'd ignore her.

Sometimes she'd slip off her stool, sidle over to him and whisper naughty things in his ear as he was doing something that needed his attention.

He'd growl at her and she'd wink at him and saunter back to the stool, knowing he was watching her butt in whatever tight pants she was wearing. He was oh so cute when he was serious.

Over the years she'd learned the truth about all this. While he was a bat and that made him overly focused, he overdid the precision of his cooking for her, just to make her laugh and try to break his concentration. If she was lucky she'd see that twinkle in his eye that hinted at his rarely seen mischievous side.

And sometimes he'd turn off the burners and leave a mess behind to push her against the fridge to kiss her laughter away.


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